Your coming here, pure accident. Dodging. The barometer was wrong; it promised grey and wet. Heavy skies. Instead, it is black and on me. Some sun in my ear. I feel it in the back of my eyes: the confusion to focus. How close? How much to get closer? How many slowly rolled before you said “Come here. You’re getting too wet.”
Maybe you’ll always see a window. I can't stop myself from looking, and looking again. And maybe again.
1 comment:
i'm really worried. please say you're ok... or alive at least - please.
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