Smoke falls. Things are created in the violence of fire.
So you watch the sunrise sinking, and she's talking in her
sleep. A dream of how alone she was tomorrow when you
keep all those promises to someone in a mirror you will find
at your parents' house in 1989. Terrorized by the ruling
party: calendars and commas. Small request, could we
please turn around? So you whisper your arrival walking
backwards to the door. Wonder briefly what it is you're
hesitating for. All the streets lie down, deserted in the darkest
part of night, to lead you through the evening to the light.
Pulled along in the tender grip of watches and ellipses. Small
request. Could we please turn around?