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Gheyco Marie

King Llanza

The golden hour demands I surrender

my copperplate, inscribed:

my debts, a reminder that I am a house

in constant need of shelter.

Among many things you’ll find in me:

paper clips, staple wires, pen and paper,

a 12-track playlist, a cigarette butt,

smooth river stones, waterfall sounds,

stairs without rails, the inner extrovert

hiding in every introvert.

Quirks begin in the attic, seeping down.

Here, foreign uncertainty is unwelcome.

I chase the sun on the way to your house,

found in miscalculation. I think 

we should break up, I say as though

a law is threatened to cease.

The road is an undesirable instrument

when we are in the belly of the beat

of our breaths. A destination to

a sad song is born, and you are lost

in the truth of my words.

We could blame the wind

for this awkward pause,

but who’s to say

where the dust gets blown away?

Girl, you are the love that slipped

from my hands, for even in denial,

I was meant to fish in the male pond.

I have chased the sun

but it remains out of reach.

So until then,

it is time to go home and listen

to the glow of the moon

touching my skin.




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