One mediocre person with an equally mediocre blog
on the nights she is not there, he sits in the swell of the moon, writes poetry about the way coffee clings to her teeth. she is a vinyl record lullaby, penny pressing the pin to her grooves, skipping over words & hours spent with the pillow cold, his arms aching chasms gasping for breath.
she spends her time repairing clocks, howling at lampposts that have long since burnt out, wrists a mess of poetry & pen ink. it’s the choking that she cannot stand, all this air and nothing but her heartbeat. it’s the way the stars scream across thousands of years and sear handprints on her thighs.
like the poets, we are dust & bones buried under the words we have but cannot say.