You are quieter here.
Away from the sounds and the lights and the way your tongue
never stopped to think that maybe, this would be the last thing it knew.
You want to call the trees home and live in them until the
snow falls and weighs too heavy on your head.
But the last thing you knew was my tongue, my fingers,
light, over your neck and the heat of a day too cold for summer
It’s the best we could do.
The light bulb blew
And for a few seconds, like the sun, we knew nothing of the
approaching disaster
Of the fire and cold, the ice that won’t form now that the
chasm of torturous heat at the centre of our room, your chest, is gone.
The trees remain silent as men watch the stars for a sign
that God is not real,
Hoping he’ll tell them himself, so they can turn their backs
on the sun
And live like mushrooms in the dark.
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