In my dreams

I am a room without doors.

You enter through the window—

a thief who steals nothing

but my name.

You hold it gently,

a bird in midair:

throat closed,

hollow,

small.

You draw out my pain,

spit it on the walls—

and everything turns red.

Like a satellite erupting,

birthing a galaxy for good.

Like a paperfly

drifting through a summer nap.

Your fingers: a bruise

blooming in the

darkness of my chest.

Your eyes: lanterns in the rain,

leading cobwebbed prayers

to God.

But—

will God ever forgive me?

I don’t tell you

that drowning has no smoke,

that burning gives no warning.

We should be corals:

alive,

yet already gone.



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