any building would crumble
at the tip of your tongue
or the weight of your glance
& i am crumbling, still.
at the tip of your tongue
or the weight of your glance
& i am crumbling, still.
i leave fingerprints over my glasses & long for spring to arrive, spend less time with people & hope for the aching to stop.
but i begin to cry when lingering in parking lots.