space

.

space is solitude
on a page

you don't want
too little
or too much

---
words: Steve Wing
image: Dorothee Lang

Retired Widow

Each evening, the
piano plays her fingers,

on keys that’d open
the night beyond

twelve. Once in, skies
expand remembered

days, after lighting
cigarette at the porch.

Its burn is long on him,
restores ashes, years

---
words: Michael Caylo-Baradi, California (more)

Alone

ghosts of passing cars, flaky and white in
soundwaves uninvited to a melancholy willing
to remain like all the wrong memories that
litter the floor with half-empty coffee cups,
and silence creeping about with bony fingers
that used to be kind, but remembering is
always off by just enough to guarantee
life will never live twice, and i can never
pretend away the vestiges of years like
suitcases perhaps never meant.

---
words: Bethany Basset (coffee-stained clarity)
image: Dorothee Lang (virtual notes)