Nana
1 min readApr 29, 2014
The leaves crackle beneath your cracked feet,
The wind — a thief to my lungs; ironically awaiting my second wind,
We held hands in the woods without a compass,
We both found comfort in the silence.
The leaves crackle beneath your cracked feet,
The wind — a thief to my lungs; ironically awaiting my second wind,
We held hands in the woods without a compass,
We both found comfort in the silence.
