J. Bradley – Poem

Weather Machine

Nerves transmuted into fireflies,
I wait for your hands, pretend
my couch is a backyard.

I want less fingers to count
the next time we can make
our bodies into swamps
worth leaving secrets in.

3 thoughts on “J. Bradley – Poem

  1. bengiartdealer

    Reblogged this on ArtDealer's Blog and commented:
    I fly planes
    Slowly driving her insane
    Though we both know one another
    We usually speak under cover
    2 am shit
    Discussions over the the feels we have for others
    But we never discuss it between one another

  2. Pingback: And All The Roads We Have To Walk Are Winding « Failure Loves Company

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