bittersweet | poem

poetry

black strands of hair, blown on an autumn day
as the green leaves turn brown, still waters.
I wonder if our love will tide away.
‘my hands are always cold,’ she says 
as I try to hold her, moves out of reach. 

we were up too late with gin, and discussions 
some of our words began to sour.
i’m not sure how the fighting begun
hard to tear us apart.

woke…