im sorry, this is most likely the worst thing i have ever written because i typed it in the car late last night after rehearsals, dead beat and half-asleep. i actually forgot about this till today but i really dont know what to do with these words so well, here they are. please dont laugh. xx

“door open
hand empty
theres no one behind me
youll come to me one day
they won’t take you away
im here now
im here now
and ill stay here somehow
until you can come to
the place where they take you”

-the last song ever written, stars

she has not yet learnt to grasp the concept of Time
it is a foreign weight of digits and hands
she does not yet know
how to tell gravity to sigh its heavy breath on

some moons ago he told her to treasure the Suns
she had left to see, but she could not remember how many more
deficient Todays she had left to collect from train station

sometimes he would bring her out to ice cream parlours
the cold bricks of Wall Streets bringing a
sensation of familiarity on which they built an
Empire of memory

at night the starless darkness above
was where she found out that to find Life she first
had to search for Home in the caverns of his flesh,
in the grass and earth under her back.

but Fortune is not something she believes in
American-shaped cookies from a Chinese restaurant
whisper from a crack that this is the last time
he will find his fate in a gash

that night she tore up the translated slip:
dual-language scripts he used as a
phrasebook of the string between them, the Hitchhikers Guide
to the Galaxy in the meagre spaces between his fingers.

in the morning the world woke to find
obituaries stacked in dollared stands of recycled bark, the
cinders of yesterday inked on her fingers
as her lips smoothened the creases along his misspelled name.

it is a Sunday night. this morning childhood graphics came
in colour except through the lenses of her
glasses. the Financial Times recites
that their stocks have dropped to the point of bankruptcy

he reminds her of dual-language messages jammed in packed trains and
ice cream cones, in night breezes, damp grass, buried in earth
and amongst crumbled butter. it is a sunday night a year after
and she has relented to go in search of a New Paper.


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