Tea

1.The sound of nightingales, of ripening strawberriesthe weak morning teain his hand extended towards methe incited easebut we got used to living like culpritswhere, oh, where should one hide it Our souls which he closed we closed tightlytouched one another (for the first time?)flattening out the sea vanishedin a dream we were, if it weren’tContinue reading “Tea”