Читать книгу Tart Honey - Deborah Burnham - Страница 6

It’s marriage a la mode, commuter

love; you leave with Monday’s dawn and stay

away while four more dawns unfold across

my single sheets. You left your worn gray

shirt. I’ll fold it in my pillow and write

a letter with my breath, one word over

and again: your name, mouthed into the shirt’s

soft threads where the rich salt of your skin still clings.