softbound

i woke up to one warm,

orange sunrise, the heat

was almost unhateable,

and the reflects it made

as i opened my window

for scum foreign winds

were mellowly melting

my eyes.

i wanted to savor, save

everything that might

not happen any longer.

what happened next

didn't matter anymore,

as seven dead photos

should've never existed,

pictures of peace-prays—

could have been perfect.