There are months when I harvest
Food as if winter were coming and I were
Still afraid of being left out in
The metaphorical cold
After the rush my tongue burns and
I start to wither
Wandering through desensitized days like
A woman who cannot
Feel the stars overhead
I am tired and unfelt
The summer days lay their heads to
Rest and I try to expand against
Time to catch the last sunset
To overlap with happiness as
Some malaise sets in and lights
A fire for its home

Author: Erica V.

Always seriously joking and rambunctiously soft-spoken.

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