Sunday, July 31, 2016

Not me, not my house

Imagine you are sitting on the balcony 
past midnight, a cigarette between your thumbs
slowly, the city becomes a mesh of light 
owl-hoot, men coming home from dating other women 
without rings on their finger. Imagine a night 
normal, without expectation. Imagine as you are sitting 
you hear the cry she makes as her skin is marked 
with shades of the rainbow. Imagine yourself sanding up
dusting your pants of leftover ash, walking toward the door
imagine saying: not me, not my house, not my family 
not real, the sound of a volcano 
letting lose its lava. 

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