I cannot say that I write about you
because we are in love,
because you died, or because you broke my heart;
moths unravel those possibilities like yarn.
You are picked up by fairies,
a powder, the scent discharged by dryer sheets.
To be honest,
I write about you because you did the same to me;
you had me in the crook of your arm,
a dusty novel composed by
southerners, although only read in the north.
I cannot say that I write about you
at all, these verses are not about your existence
but how you could have
opened the world as if it were a book of mine.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
I cannot say that I write about you
because we are in love,
because you died, or because you broke my heart;
moths unravel those possibilities like yarn.
You are picked up by fairies,
a powder, the scent discharged by dryer sheets.
To be honest,
I write about you because you did the same to me;
you had me in the crook of your arm,
a dusty novel composed by
southerners, although only read in the north.
I cannot say that I write about you
at all, these verses are not about your existence
but how you could have
opened the world as if it were a book of mine.
