Sent from my iPhone

In middlenight,

The tapping of thumbs,

Is an eruption of fireworks,

And thoughts fly spontaneous and lucid,

Ready to be arranged perfectly,

From mind to paper in fluid blackness.

But that wonโ€™t do.


Itโ€™s late and tomorrow is close,

Those mortal coils anchor bodies in beds,

And so instead, faces lit,

Fingers type beneath the covers,

Too excited to cease,

Until the faucet is closed.

And the pain of a withheld breath,

Is exhaled.


Sent from my iPhone

7 thoughts on “Sent from my iPhone

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