Logan Compau, Fiver October Afternoons, Dismantled

The parchment conflicts we tried to record
created harsh blood flow galaxies but mended park benches
near bus stops we’ve forgotten use us for continuous beauty
why then am I afraid of ripples in a puddle?

I bruised the moon while reaching towards you
The window seemed to be closer to the ground at first
but it’s hard to tell how badly I pierced my tongue on the rock in your shoe
This must be what limbo feels like

The pavement became dismantled storybooks
and the space between then and the silence now is harsh
To dip the inks I feel I need to walk in
I like to think these bus stops became thunderclaps to account for their loss

The absence of light decayed the voices I heard through the walls
though I continued to write on the chairs headrest so you’d feel them
the infant snowfall outside sent me a letter
saying dawn was too late to ask for a kinder cloud formation

We haven’t left your rug for hours
I forget which one of us turned off the fearful stares down the hall
I know that my bruised canvas burst in so awkwardly
but just keep painting until we smell of sunlight

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