This ending afternoon,
smeared colours
and your skin hides the corner of your eyes.
Crematorium
and the attribution.
It must have been long since i stopped living for a subsequence.
But when you fold your legs and the invisibility grows in my stomach,
i find an instance.
To be immaculate.

A wireless road sleeps in you,
a wet mayhem.
I spill my liquor
and you sit to taste it off my mouth.
A ripe ignition outside,
the night has knives in its trumpets,
i wait in my despair.
A lullaby and a poet in post mortem.

……………………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Thea Voutiritsas

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