TYPEWRITER

T y p E w R i t e r

We sat snug by the table with the hovering leg, Placed a hand to milky carbon copies, Grasping each other’s breath with curved, inky incisions, We glided. Across the blank terrain, in the flat fibers, We constructed our palatial story. A story of kings and queens adorned in robes, Gold awnings and crystal chandeliers, Marble for tables and king crabs for snack.

I sat with you in our palace until i lifted my hands. The stucco was smeared, The table wobbly, Electricity off, And beans cold. I loved our embrace. We bled. We loved. And we sat.

By Isabelle Charles