the stories i was whispering to you while you slept

by September 22, 2017 0 comments

we are in a back room
at the old library
where they stack piles of books
on the floor

our palms are buried
beneath ash and dust

your eyes peer at me over tall stacks
of half-torn pages
like twin black holes

you bear the sulphuric scent of the void
in space

we pretend we are somewhere else
all the time

– Panos Panagiotopoulos

editors note:

With nothing but words to define our place. – mh clay

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