Library

The expanse of miles

Do not even perforate the bluest skies

Here, where eyes cross corrugated bookshelves

And you can find the essence of love

At night

In a stairwell.

Or between the lines

Where I find myself habitually

Caring for cadence which

Comes with the time.

For I, here

Hastily find expression

Amidst leaves and spines

In this human foliage,

This friction

We search ourselves for

Amidst the imperfections.

Stirring

The single sheet mirror

And waiting for ourselves to surface

Though the tears, the charge

Thick through the slate of the human heart.

The pen slips as the

Morning breaks, to the

Scatter of light

The grating of feet.