Love,
when you ask my long face
‘what’s wrong?’
– where to begin,
I don’t know;
Just now? Yesterday?
Nineteen ninety four?
Or,
the day I was born?
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Love,
when you ask my long face
‘what’s wrong?’
– where to begin,
I don’t know;
Just now? Yesterday?
Nineteen ninety four?
Or,
the day I was born?
In the dark,
everything melts nameless
and sound itself, quiet.
What a thing it is,
to not be.
Come crickets,
fireflies,
wash over me.
Bring me the night.
Image by Julie Paterson