If the boy who draws lets you look over his shoulder. If the poetsmilesand shows you her words. If the girl who sings for the shower only, hums a son gin front of you. Know that you’re no longer a person but the Armand dust that fills their lungs. When the world perishes, and all things cease to exist, you’ll remain inside an ink stain, a paint brush, a song. Poem N. 8

Growing Light