It is occult, maybe, that we are twins
but not of Gemini
how you know
which streets to turn left at
while I have the names and no context
how you still smell like cinnamon
although I never saw you
rub powder against your skin.
We are in the same city now
we have the same radio stations.
I see you the way I see the outline of
a boot when I can’t touch slumber
not ethereal
but almost reduced to such a shape
a barbershop’s swirling bulb
stretched and sunnier when no one has
entered in some time.
Everything is magic
in desperation, everything is similar.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 5:21 PM UTC
It is occult, maybe, that we are twins
but not of Gemini
how you know
which streets to turn left at
while I have the names and no context
how you still smell like cinnamon
although I never saw you
rub powder against your skin.
We are in the same city now
we have the same radio stations.
I see you the way I see the outline of
a boot when I can’t touch slumber
not ethereal
but almost reduced to such a shape
a barbershop’s swirling bulb
stretched and sunnier when no one has
entered in some time.
Everything is magic
in desperation, everything is similar.
