You live in a scrap heap of imaginary lives.

You’ve always been alone,

But the worn-out boots by the door are somebody else’s size.

You’re a piano-player’s daydream, you smell like

Sad songs and solitaire.

And one night,

you walked across the room-

you draped your jacket on my empty chair.


You’re a story in a book I left in a bus.

A few pages more and I might have reached you.



PS: That's a real background, not a painting. Manually edited it to look Van Gogh-ish.


About Pami Therese

I am a fantasist. This means I’ve never been very impressed with the whole business of growing up, and have therefore decided not to. This also means I see around corners and like all sorts of imaginary things. I am very much myself, which is one thing today and possibly another thing tomorrow. View all posts by Pami Therese

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