I am not a graceful person.
I am not a Sunday morning, or a summer sunset.
I am a Monday morning, and a long work commute.
I am a broken window during February.
I fall from elegance with a dull thump.
I don't belong to people,
I belong to all the hearts that have been broken.
The way light and dark mix under my skin has become a glow
You don't see the dying star, but you hear the
explosion.
