Synaesthesia Magazine Cities - Page 79

the way

the occupied house across the street

never lights up

the way snow falls so slowly

the way the drumset sits unbuilt

like infant cells before instructions

the way the fake diamond

always rolls inward, never showing

the way we don't know of trees

that die during our lifetimes

the way one fifth of a plant lives on

the way the dog follows me everywhere

the way apologies break in my hands

The way memory can't be be tamed

with an icepick.

The way mountains are blue, grey green

and aren't really

the way I love you if you just

don't touch me.


Poems by Julie Kim Shavin

Photograph by Zsuzsanna Kilian