somewhere in the city
there is a girl feeling no calm before the storm
(or storm before the kiss)
she’s found no apocalypse
in the space between her lips and his -
no bang, no whimper -
only more space, and in it creeps,
molasses, small and doesn’t hit her like a brick
wall hits her back when later tonight
she fistfights herself with plaster, turns out
there are some laws of motion she just can’t master,
was it that she couldn’t muster up the strength? but
she builds her own walls and these are walls we recognise
from when we wandered in ourselves
that place where we disguise
how overcast it feels inside
somewhere in the city
there is a girl
whose walls collide, but featherlight, with ours and
there are storms and storms and storms
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