in a locked room
after we leave?
I suspect our ghosts arrive
like tourists, and
sit and feed off of
the memories of
what once was,
stories glazed with sweetness
as the world turns dark
and then light again.
in a locked room
after we leave?
I suspect our ghosts arrive
like tourists, and
sit and feed off of
the memories of
what once was,
stories glazed with sweetness
as the world turns dark
and then light again.
of me, little by little little bites sinking into old wounds every time and I let her because just like the trees open their hands to the snow I do love the idea of dying slowly loved and afraid and b
is write little books, is what I heard the husband of a friend say once. that's all she does, all day he said and she laughed and I nodded and felt my shoulders sink and remembered her laugh as I sat
Bring in your dead, she said. So I dragged my lovers out of the warm cocoons of my sheets out through my crooked legs and my sweat-soaked arms and watched as they clutched not at the bed, but at their