Cummings
A small poem of his that has always warmed me up on cold days:
died of a broken heart and we came to New York.
I used to sit at a table, drawing wings
with a pencil that kept breaking and i kept
remembering how your eyes looked when they slept
for several years, to wake up asking why
so then you turned into a photograph
of somebody who's trying not to laugh
at somebody who's trying not to cry.
I used to sit at a table, drawing wings
with a pencil that kept breaking and i kept
remembering how your eyes looked when they slept
for several years, to wake up asking why
so then you turned into a photograph
of somebody who's trying not to laugh
at somebody who's trying not to cry.
