26th January 2019

He wets his fingers,

pinches her lit wick

and extinguishes her flame

when he says,

‘You’re not very sexual.’

 

Her heart is lonely,

harbouring the thought

of the tumor

in her father’s lung.

 

The sky is white,

the road treacherous.

She clasps a blemished crystal

as though it’s a compass.

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