50 minutes ago
apologies to the poet - fell in love with that line and couldn't help myself
Untitled
after busker
Love is the only foolish
adventuring we do, a story
most convincing in the absence
of the truth.
Part a pair of parrots, and
they’ll pluck themselves to death.
The clock starts ticking once the plumage sheds
its final breath.
I looked for you in London, where the air
is thick with memory—you weren’t there,
but your sister was. The cockles
made me sick.
Time accrues. It wraps around
the throat and closes slow, until
one morning, you just don’t wake up.
And you’re the last to know.
Untitled
after busker
Love is the only foolish
adventuring we do, a story
most convincing in the absence
of the truth.
Part a pair of parrots, and
they’ll pluck themselves to death.
The clock starts ticking once the plumage sheds
its final breath.
I looked for you in London, where the air
is thick with memory—you weren’t there,
but your sister was. The cockles
made me sick.
Time accrues. It wraps around
the throat and closes slow, until
one morning, you just don’t wake up.
And you’re the last to know.