8. Light Years

Pouring out of pockets / parcels of fleshy time
melting down your leg / like a Dali painting.
You laugh at my metaphor,
but it’s true / time is running out.

You had walked down those stairs so often,
traced a finger along the lily white walls.
I wondered how we could have forgotten
all ambition / we remained static in thresholds.

Since I saw J.K. carve her deftly hallows
I’ve never been the same / can’t write the same.
Godspit / China said / learning how to fly
was never supposed to be easy.

The End

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