there's a pile
of dirty laundry
that you have left
to dry like artwork
you weave goodbyes
until the corners
of my room
are webbed in
inescapable tessellations
you bury my love poems
in so much dust
that even the dirt
starts to look like snow
—a tessellation
YOU ARE READING
an ocean of teardrops
PoetryI avoid surfaces with reflections, avoid facing reality. At the sea, where I last washed away my scars only to have them appear in different places, different faces. And so I try comforting myself through imaginary conversations with the people I lo...
