foraging for waveson

on lost love and nostalgia.

we’re a fragment to be considered for revision. a cracked, broken segment that retains the potential to be whole again, but never quite is. never quite will be. constantly teetering on the brink of hopelessness, but never failing to find temporary shelter under salvaged shards of debris composed of ramshackle memories, of wine stained lips and sea musk.

we spend our mornings exchanging void kisses and our nights missing who we once were. and what we once were was magnificent. retribution is futile, however, a forgotten ramification amidst our careless rage. so now, we can only relent. we pay our debts in sharp words and tarnished memories that linger, unbidden, between pages of poetry and inside the thumb holes of acrylic jumpers.