A moth landed on my lipsAnd kissed meI turned into a skyscraper, a rose
A rose is a fire engineThe street is a cup of coffeeAmerica is a big rug puzzle for kidsThere is a pit in me
Moths aren’t nostalgicMoths are flickering lightbulbsMoths in industrial London got darkerIndustrial London was made of moths
Soot landed on my lipsSoot is smeary on my lipsLike newspaper words
More poems should be newspapersMore moths should be sootMore tomatoes should be cherries
Sometimes I don’t want to be in a place that smells like a public toiletSometimes I want to land in a heap of ashSwallowed in a silent coughLike every moth
Photo by Rúben Marques on Unsplash