Listen
to the songs
I write about you:
you were behind
every word,
spelling through
the verses
and swimming
behind the thoughts
they're songs
that might never
come to existence
for if it
ever did
I'd have already
grown tired of
writing
YOU ARE READING
Albeit flawed,
PoetryI was basking under the sun-the waves muffle the sound of my breathing; and I bury myself with cautionary confidence in the sand and with it the memory of your four faces. How can something lethal be life-restorative?
