red/green/not christmas

green line: I lean against the door.

I’m not supposed to.

I do it anyway.

Through the music I pump in my ears to keep tears at bay I hear

two men discussing architecture,

loudly, as if they had already

constructed walls around themselves to hold their voices in,

unrestrained behind brick and glass.

I watch one of the men sketch quickly with his left hand.

Of course.


red line: where everything feels familiar, even

the girl who puts on a single glove with which to hold on to the metal railing.

She doesn’t turn it inside out when she puts it back in her pocket and I wonder, then

what’s the point?


I feel blank,

and emerge in darkness,

and I feel clueless as I try

to read the map without anyone else seeing

that I have only the slightest idea of where I’m going.


I climb the back stairs and

it’s one of those nights.

The rain starts with the click of the door behind me,

falling the way

I try not to anymore.




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