she wrote a poem once and, maybe deluded, i thought it was for me. she'd written nine hundred poems in her time, but this one was for me. i looked into her grayed eyes that day and they were like cameras to me. i looked at her lips and that night i heard the words … Continue reading like cameras to me.
still i find her, on the sill, in the fading birthday flowers, in the thirsty vase. a stray hair in the bath, her scrawl on some scrap paper. a receipt, screwed in denim. pocket and breathe for a moment, forever, her sillage as I pass the chair she favoured. i hear her songs; of course, her … Continue reading her ghost.
some things [take a long time to stick] plus some things [take a long time to slip] equals something, something, something... alive to give
nickreeves 