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Spaghetti knots

A good boy

The gun’s grown old

and forgetful

but I have only grown old

because even now

my hands are half-closed

as though in an embrace

and my eyes are narrow

as though daylight didn’t bleed

and my breath is still

as though I need to stop someone elses’ lungs

to start my own

but I am only offered

some tea and muffins instead

and the cup slips from my fingers

and I’m told that these things happen

and I can see her breath shorten

while mine expands into

the muzzled cracks

and the red liquid stains

the carpet of hair


We write the people

we read and hear

back into existence

by mimicking their words

like my love’s last letter

and my mother’s apology for leaving

and a dog collar of Frank,

a good boy,

resting in my hand,

all of which can be summed up

in the bark

I’m sure Frank gave off

when he escaped,

a bark I’d share

if I left too

but someone has to find Frank

for he was a good boy

and so am I

and I can’t bark well yet

because I’m too busy

trying to parrot

the empty mouths around

About kacperniburski

I am searching for something in between the letters. Follow my wordpress or my IG (@_kenkan)


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