conspiracy
i’ll lie about it but i think that if i count to 30 and a car doesn’t pass by a bird flies into the window at 15 and
in empty despite i search how to kill what makes us idle how to silence what makes
an old woman on a cloudy day who swears to you she has never seen anything so
webs stretch over corners alive because they haven’t once been touched – i am halfway out the
feeling sick with familiarity in cities i’ve never been, like nothing is ever ever new or
a fan circulates indoor air and i let it lazy with love for what isn’t
venus’ flower basket
water can be sharp on the dawning of the shock glass spined sponges housing lovers til they’re locked
light washing over surfaces that don’t bother to talk to their insides – but i get it i think they are just
waiting on the mountains to collapse under their dust patterns that slow it down a reason to have thumbs
sink into an ocean that you have never seen drown a pretty melody bury its epiphany
when you’re tired of yourself you can be tired of
Rachel Lederer is a writer living in New York City.
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