busy paper
I wish i could be the busy paper of the street to support the paths that were written for you, like a dance, a composer of details i wish i were a poet for your blink an architect of arms designer for your neck. A glove. A pen. Paper that does not burn. …
Thread
Your hair is a carpet, a daily labyrinth of thread. The streets I walk end up at the end of day in a hair of yours as if a city of sand is turned into glass wires by the fiery lights of the dusk.
