written in indigo…
tracing the pulse of blue veins,
with a scent of shadow,
a ghostly host of mist,
yielding to the gravity of us,
inward deep in quiet exhale,
in our garden of midnight bloom,
where the moon is pale,
coming home to rhythmic thrum,
tracing the pulse of blue veins,
with a scent of shadow,
written in indigo…










