telepathy
the magic of poetry
begins with this:
you are with me
in a small house on the
middle of a thick forest
with you reaching for a bag of flour
above the mantelpiece where i placed
our picture together, smiling with
hands draped on each otherβs shoulder
ignorant of the consequences
of a broken chair
and a bag of flour
to the almost seven years
we walked alone
on our way home