The dead air
looms
like the shoe of
the world waiting
to fall.
the building creeks
and bends
and a baby squeals
in some distant corner.
a phone conversation has
ended
above my head.
and then starts up again.
it is a mumbling,
nondescript
like the talking of
flat-footed souls.
I know what you're wondering
and you know what I'm thinking.
her love is like an
anesthesia.
without her the world is too
sharp.
the world is a stark
mountain range
and I am a goat climbing
up its spine.
or a snake, crawling to
sleep in its base.
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About the Creator
Andrew Arnett
Freelance writer living in Brooklyn, NY.
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