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Feb 2016
the voices, they become
white noise. white smoke,
           my wide eyes are
wandering again
in search of you

behind foggy windows and
along the lines where walls meet
ceilings. your shoulders,
they are too silent today--
I lose your blue-rimmed

certainty in the current.
do you hear me calling?
you begin to turn--
          dark hair, sharp edges
but the voices become


           and we are lost.
some days you seem so far away
Ayana Harscoet
Written by
Ayana Harscoet
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