22 October 2012


It's nice to look at, this weakness.
It's shaped like a house, folded inward.
Wandering out into the night,
we misplace our dreams, tuck our sorrows
into swollen pockets.
I am mute, because words are forgotten here.
I am cold, because I left my coat at your place.
When we stumble over rabbit holes in the dark,
we remember our voices
just in time to cough and cry
into the night,
wondering if we can ever make it home.

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