elise.writer

you asked me one day
(it was a winter day)
a day where the air was crisp and chilly
the sort of crisp and chilly that prickled your skin,
and your bones.
and i said that when i truly had nothing to worry about

You're not wanted here, you never were
You've rounded up in the wrong place, you have
Your long frays of green out lengthen our own weakling of strawberry patches
Your streaks extending out like a blanket over our pristine soil

I am young.
I turn my light out at 10 or 11 in the summer. Everything
is gone, and then it comes back again in the morning.
Time doesn't pass, except for it does, it just doesn't really