You always point out the other

World behind the clouds

As if you have been there.

When I sit in the library

Moaning to dead poets

And trying to remember

Not to forget next time

I imagine you in a tower

Stretching muscle

Fine-pointed limbs like

Branches aching with leaves,

And you reach further

Than could ever try.

Yesterday you finally

Caught the sun in your eyes.

But then it ran

And you ran after

Forgotten letters

Claiming the forest.


By Esme Garlake


Header image by Doris Cozma

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