at six

17.

meet me at six,

when the sun bleeds

and the streets clear,

he said.

and the journey to

our favourite place

was long,

and my feet ached

as it came into sight.

with a tumble as the wind blew,

and scarred arms

I was met with

the quiet rustling of the leaves

and his voice

was just

a distant echo

among the golden clouds.

he was gone.

💔