Our first week, you showed me around
your empty capital in a dream. We skipped
Parliament and headed down Calea Victoriei,
lit beeswax candles for the living,
drank jasmine tea at Serendipity, then
a big one hit. I would’ve asked
what happened next, but I was in it, I knew,
I could feel it: you’d have saved yourself
if it weren’t for each day you forget how.
You’re like that musicologist I’ve read about—
seventeen-second memory. Every 3.4
blinks, forgets what he’s forked into his mouth,...
- 1 of 168