The river beckons like knives in wet hands.
I see myself lying in it,
teeth against the stones,
mouth full of gritty water,
jaw stretched wide with
water rushing through my hair.

The night wind catches my skin like hooks.
Wet tarmac glints gold under the lights:
a sad man’s stars when he can’t lift his eyes,
beams from street lamps flood the air, mask the sky;
hiding the lights that used to shine
through pinpricks
in a dark blue veil above.


About abigailbaross

Writer and aspiring publisher
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