Folded in self, on beds made for lovers to leave, the sound of our neighbors’ air conditioner, like far away sighs of tired buildings. We balk at the shape of loss, of asymmetric, disproportionate hearts that beat even in sleep. We wander towards the edge of dreams, where reality might bleed into what we can never conceive, never in our wake. Reality is discoloured by the lack of trust, two parts overcast grey with a hint of the green of your lover’s eyes.
-
liketinyvessels liked this
-
footnotestohappiness posted this
