the door, twist and see
an empty room, i bet you the floor opens.
feels like a girlish rusted energy. she left her hot tears in cotton to singe with no alarm.
Once your'e in the room.
Counting thread so high
There's no slippage of dreams
into the sea of your mothers tidy seams.
What have we even brought to this day? to complement the sun's delight.
She wrote to me with a penmanship of thieves, not on leaves, on screens earned from good societal deeds.
Her favorite sense was sight, seeing doesn't always make you alright. If you cant hear my face. We need more christmas lights.
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