Frames | a poem by Connor Franta

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frames

photographs fly down
where we used to lie down
removed by the same hands
that used to hold my hands
together we pack them away
in cardboard capsules
behind closed doors
memories stay and decay
in the grace of queens and kings
to a land where dreams are made
now hidden in darkness
an empty row of nails line the wall
my eyes sting with pain
his white tee stained
with a cocktail of tears
we wish to hide beside them
two stowaways capsized in the present
below our melted hearts
blood drains from our veins
as the door closes one last time
on everything we used to know
our eyes shut before midnight
no words to break the silence
wishing for an extra hour
hoping for a better day
like the ones depicted
behind the wooden frames
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Hope you enjoyed the video! have a great week, loves xx