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there is something about the air
it reeks of forgotten familiarity---

they love
but hate
because they needed each other

that is how it is near winter
the heart turns into fake ice
willing the ordinary to materialise

something slippery about the conversation
a sudden shyness for fear
as though something would break too soon

even in the most mundane of it
coffee can grow cold and butter may not melt
the mind never forgets, remembering can be painful

like any other process- serving time
playing each other's ventriloquist
no strings attached

then in the morning we would march silently---
listening only to the noises under our toes



estherg

 

ventriloquist