She reads poems
like they're spells she doesn't understand.
How ironic—
becoming one herself.
She believes in fate
the way moths believe in flame.
I only had to wait.
The wings always arrive.
She reads poems
like they're spells she doesn't understand.
How ironic—
becoming one herself.
She believes in fate
the way moths believe in flame.
I only had to wait.
The wings always arrive.