emeralds are eyes that glow in

night’s perfume, dim, yellow light;

music is the warm cider of guitar plucks,

your violin.

there’s a candle between us shedding tears

(gentle, just like yours).

heed the crackling fire; she tickles

with whispers.


i imagine the trees are quiet outside, because they listen.

i imagine the telescope you built the other night.

here, the birds sing to

your voice in the shower.

it rains

in the morning, but no worries, you still have your Russians.

Tolstoy. Dostoevsky. Gogol.

a rusty frame settled comfortably on your nose;

bespectacled jewels.


you wrote me a melody the other night, but

tossed it away and said it out loud.

nothing matters, it’s true.

(oh how i love that voice. and it echoed into the stars,

and the far-reaching cosmos.)

how absurd is it, then, that i still love you.


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