What of

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what of hope
but empty promises
if you do not
dream of dandelion fields
and look for four-leaf clovers
in pavement cracks
sometimes?
(even though you’ve never seen one)

what of ambition
but unbridled fantasies
if you do not
bellow your wild ideas
to the skies?
(the ones that make
the earth tremble
and the seas part way)

what of love
but heartbreaks and mistakes
if you do not
try to swallow it
but find its fluttery wings
tickling the pit of your stomach
leaving feathers on your tongue
when you least expect it to?
(the 2am I miss yous
and 2.05am tinder convos
tastes strangely like vodka)

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A Letter Home From Melbourne

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guess what,
mother,
people are packed closer here

foreign bodies stick together
under putrid heat
I can barely breathe
as the crowded tram
crawls up swanston street

and the boy
with sharp elbows
digging into me
is tethered to sanity
through lime-green earphones
that barely blocks out
6pm traffic
and all these strange heart beats

Continue reading “A Letter Home From Melbourne”