Pretence at a marble topped temple.
Surety of a citrus covered habit.
An unessential burn of people.
Welcomed smiles and a nervousness of
What if.
What if it burns my eyes
And grows my bed
Until the other side is lost
To the fuller.
Why do I know them
But I feel like a stranger
As strange as the blur of a ‘good night’ spent.
And a knowing
A certainty
That is astronomical and aware of itself,
Where I will never be.
Lily Portman 