Your voice in
the greying room
becomes, for me,
a nocturne in minor chords,
some pattern subsidiary to
what is manifest:
walls engendered by
my thoughts, giving
rise to windows
which look upon
dying palms;
our scents mixed
into the air we use
to keep smelling each other;
a hanging mask the
size of two heads that
is neither wood or plastic
and feels like flesh
as I touch it;
the clock on the floor
dismissing time.
So to prescribe
words to the
sounds coming
from your mouth
would dogmatize meaning
and make of the
light fading
in this place
something more
than a moment
we are
experiencing.
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