Time Loses Substance
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
that inner storms
won’t pass easily.
rooting. pinned
in chairs.
day five or
seven, it doesn’t matter.
blinding each
other in battles of syllables
crusted with
yesterday’s hates and today’s small uncertainties,
decorating cakes in pained pastels.
better to
butter your bread
singe tea,
on this dusky
morning.
sew lips closed
as shutters clack against painted clapboard
and we measure out planned vacancies.
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