The Art Of Infatuation.
The dusk wastes its pity on me. In its muted retiring lights, i have learned a terrible habit of forcing poems out of my mouth, when maybe all i wanna do is be as quiet as the wounds nesting inside my head.
The dusk wastes its pity on me. In its muted retiring lights, i have learned a terrible habit of forcing poems out of my mouth, when maybe all i wanna do is be as quiet as the wounds nesting inside my head.
