​Call me in the afternoon,

When your hair has turned that familiar dust dark and your mouth

is a crescent moon.

Call me Wednesday,

lips leaking words like comets 

spiralling across the sky, 

and your voice 

a black hole to be swallowed by. 

Call me 

after that.

When there is nothing you’d rather do with your time

than spin stories on the end of my sighs.

Call me 




fucking call me. 
Cause I miss you.

And I’m an unfinished poem without


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