Cecilia Borromeo
Restless
It is that perennial immateriality dwelling between living and dying Crouched in the corners and grappling by the hinges Only to remain unseen; We weave our web of what we believe we understand Of
Silent Mark
another day is here and my hands are still covered With a mantle of stoic ink Words scribbled on a hesitant paper Wishing to be read now not later. I want you to see
Something that you should know
my secrets Appear on your window When you fog the division With your own warm breath; you lost yourself in their presence, In your search for Cheekbones on sunflowers And night blades By the