Mouth at my ear
i think youre telling me about
a typewriter you found
in an abandoned mill
but words are dragged out
to the sea of sound around us
leaving me with just the breath that formed them
ghosts dancing up the back of my neck
we give in
to the crowds compression
we are held
upright by the press of stranger love
an embrace ill pull in tight around me later
walking home in stripping wind
imagining your mill
how it would feel to slide in
through a paneless window
wander with you stepping over
each glass scattered shadow
tracing fingers across muscles of machinery
to feel our way into the lightless inner rooms
filling hallowed space
with the breathless music of discovery
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