Sometimes, she collects nights
and hangs them by her bedside.
Some days
she wakes up without a face.
He lives on her streets
reads Murakami under her window.
Sometimes he sketches on a corner of the evening
the outline of her shame
reflected onto the blinds of her bedroom
window.
and hangs them by her bedside.
Some days
she wakes up without a face.
He lives on her streets
reads Murakami under her window.
Sometimes he sketches on a corner of the evening
the outline of her shame
reflected onto the blinds of her bedroom
window.
2 comments:
This is really good. The best of you really
That's surprising.
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