Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine #6

[untitled] And though it’s your hands that are cold you sleep with slippers on, weighed down the way shadows change places to show what death will be like before it gets dark –even in bed you limp, the blanket backing away and you hang on, want to be there still standing yet you can’t remember if it’s more rain or just that your fingers are wet from falling in love and every time they pass your lips it’s these slippers that save you from drowning, let you go on, caress something that is not dressed in white, disguised as the warm breath thrown over the headboard smelling from cemeteries without moving your feet.

Simon Perchik