you leave
and the house becomes
a wound deep enough
to rest in,
every room holding you
the way I want to
the cold lifts
and waits
beyond the glass
winter now
the thinnest murmur
of bone
and there is no metaphor
for the way I miss you
I'm sure I have never
known want
like your name
or the curving soft
of your neck
—I loved you, I love you, and I will love you
ВИ ЧИТАЄТЕ
an ocean of teardrops
ПоезіяI 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...
