Traced in a wet sand her name in perfect cursive. A love letter to the crescent moon. By tommorrow it will be gone I told her. There is no tommorrow she said. I can feel her in a bikini of coiled snakes dancing into the hiss of the wind. Postcards from a paradise in flames. She used to be so right. So right about everything.
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Copy to Clipboard: Traced in a wet sand her name in perfect cursive. A love letter to the crescent moon. By tommorrow it will be gone I told her. There is no tommorrow she said. I can feel her in a bikini of coiled snakes dancing into the hiss of the wind. Postcards from a paradise in flames. She used to be so right. So right about everything.
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