Ghosts
Dark settles on the walls. The
street lamp blinks some light,
then dies, then blinks again. A
moth- stuck inside the room-
pares its wings on the glass,
falls to the windowsill,
then does it again. My eyelids
do the same.
I remember his mouth; how the
ghosts under his tongue
slid through the cracks of his
teeth, found mine, stayed there.
And the birds at the backs of
our eyes drank too much to
leave.
He told me there's a life of
everything, somewhere else;
one that isn't made of feathers
or concrete.
I'd be the flayed moth that made
it through the glass,
He, the sun, and my guts would
be warmed under him.
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