While measuring the blueness of the sky,
the figs went stale.
You open your hands to grasp the last fresh ones—
like a prayer,
or a leaf in its senescence.
The heart constricts itself into a void,
like the death of a love
that arrives too late at your door.
Your forgetfulness has misplaced all your memories
somewhere in the house,
and, somewhere you end up—
without trying, but never in exile.
Dec 5, 2024
Dec 5, 2024 at 1:21 AM UTC
While measuring the blueness of the sky,
the figs went stale.
You open your hands to grasp the last fresh ones—
like a prayer,
or a leaf in its senescence.
The heart constricts itself into a void,
like the death of a love
that arrives too late at your door.
Your forgetfulness has misplaced all your memories
somewhere in the house,
and, somewhere you end up—
without trying, but never in exile.