I have stacks of books you told me
to read. I balance plates and teacups
on their woven frames, these tiny
uneven cities.
I will never get to their words.
I eat my poached eggs, drink my
black coffee and stare at the stacks,
prop my feet up.
They have a light that sneaks out
from between the pages as I sleep.
I wonder what you’re trying
to tell me.
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