Sometimes it is fiction.
These stories live
the forbidden life.

And vicarious,
I watch from a trembling perch.
Follow clock and calendar guides.

We sink our hands.
We sink our lips.
We sink our eyes —

Threaten eviction,
then worry that
on waking
they’ll have vacated
the premises.

Every dawn,
a new judgement day —
And no matter what
crimes and sins
they have collected,
the breaking light
reveals innocent,
beautiful eyes.

And again,
I gather them close.
And their grip on me
only grows tighter.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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