No Posh to Pish In
by oskar gambony-steding Spectrums bend my eyes, kaleid in blinking breaths Like residual foam of waves crashed A clenched fist stirs the rising bubbles Too tiny to pop Already nothing I wipe the sweat from my face Try to ignore the pitter patter of these icicle stilts dripping It’s almost the same Raising my head while sinking, bowing my head while rising I decide not to mention the 23 minutes counting down on your microwave as you ask what my name was again Though you described in length how it vibrated down your tongue, shook your lips Saying it again, and again only hours ago When two bodies and hot breath were the only thing keeping your room from Emptiness My body shook I could hear its resonance Like strings on a harp (Alice Coltrane's) The room is full now, empty of possibility It is cold And reeks of nothing in particular
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