The London Hours, 2012

Standard

*
It’s being back in fog
in a spring day
.
It’s waiting to take off
a wet wet coat
.
It’s being put back in time
face down on the shore
.
waves and waves
against and afar
putting me under
letting me out
as if there isn’t an end
.
I cannot reach you
anymore
.
I can only fathom how
you looked like
.
I have only memories
and loops
.
moving around my hips
shake your body
rotate look up the arms
rings on fingers
heavier around my head
.
Everyone comes back
these days
.
Everywhere I turn I
realize
.
Every moment we spent
rebounds
.
Death is a hole
.

.

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