Updated: Jan 23

I find orange


a room lit,


on a dining room table

with people,

small cocktails.

They sip

every so often

in cyclical speeches,

citing stories

they all know,

university shells

and dormitories.

I sip my tea

amongst beige walls,

holding my knees

to the context

of a forehead.

A solitude of hearth

in the distance,

I rely on country wrinkles to warm,

hand patterns within

the trust of the moon.

As night provokes

the orange light across my eyes,

reflections of longing faces,

I hold on

to this moment

of glass,

pulling my knees closer

to my chest.

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