Suwan Wanawattanawong; Shutterstockyou cut a piece of my hairit curls between your index finger and your thumbin the distancesilhouetted against the snowknotted kerchiefsthe dress of a woman who insinuates herself on people’s skin like mold on wallsin the little house hidden by oak treesin the unmade bed where every night you sleep aloneI listen to…
Bloom #poem #poetry
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