She sits and stares and I do too.
Outside, the billowed silk is cold:
the cubic art with Scottish lines, drawn hard.
But these – the light, the sound, the uncertain story –
seem so wrong. They wake up longing;
they brush a broken wing against loneliness.
And desire.
Let me in, they whisper to us. Let me through.
There is no need to stare at her.
She hears it too.
Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy from Pexels
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