This Town
This town has eyes, and they’ve seen drowning in seclusion, and flaming in blather; and journals splattered in meaningless scribbles and a single sheet with a lone word on it, that holds more sense than all poetry; and beauty, and ugliness; and flowers wilting in rooms of light and weeds sprawling in puddles of mud.
This town has a tongue, and it has tasted Lucky Stripes and Marlboros; and stale espresso and velvety mochas; and my mouth; and my blood.
This town has fingers, and they’ve felt the burden of passing time and the blessing of forgetting. And the roughness of denim and softness of wool. And the beat of my heart in my neck and the softness of my skin in the places you haven’t touched.
This town has a tongue, and it has tasted Lucky Stripes and Marlboros; and stale espresso and velvety mochas; and my mouth; and my blood.
This town has fingers, and they’ve felt the burden of passing time and the blessing of forgetting. And the roughness of denim and softness of wool. And the beat of my heart in my neck and the softness of my skin in the places you haven’t touched.
This town has a mind, and it thinks of Dostoevsky, and crying on the pavement, and decimation and loads of undone laundry. And of everything I’ve told it about you.
Dedicated to M.
Author: Eva-Axelle Moller
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