in poem •  11 months ago 

Already it is evening. On the still, a candle is burning up into a point.
A pale blue thumbnail flickering around the center- hollow, steady.

Clove and orange peel whistle through the teapot and steam the windows, closing out the rain.
Soon, I will grow tired of the rain. Soon, it will be winter- I will be once again

Unable to refrain from holding this year up to all those that have passed.
But for now, still in this armchair, I rest and feel the season giving itself over into history. Outside, the streets are quiet.

Leaves bow and rise to the splash of rain, their branches nodding gently against my window. In the alley, streetlamps blaze up one by one.

I don’t know what to do with my heart.

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