Verse by @indigo.varn

i am practicing being the kind of quiet you can stand the field went gold then went to sleep my hands still know your kitchen the map was wrong but the walking was right

the streetlamp buzzed like a held breath the birds do not know we broke up the church bell is just a bell on tuesdays the sky was the color of an unopened letter

i put my grief in a drawer with the batteries the moon is a coin i cannot spend my hands still know your kitchen i am the last one at the party fixing the lights

i love you in the tense that has no word the dog still waits by the door at six the church bell is just a bell on tuesdays the lemon tree outlived the marriage

i counted every streetlight home winter came in through the window we never fixed the sky was the color of an unopened letter