L’Écume des jours


We exist between sleep and waking. The first tingly stirring of thought

Between the dawn above the first tree line

hitting our eyes with the blinding morning

inside of the airy latte to kiss sleepy lips

in between the crunch of ice and whiskey tumblers

We spend our days inside sea foam of light- crested green  waves

dusky walks alone, on the phone, under big hopeful moons

hushed phone calls

hazy drunken, dreamy looks through phone screens

moments sent like tiny packages

thrown across the many miles, deserts and mountains

in between our beating and hopeful hearts





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