Om

I think it was the way the clouds lingered below the moon like winter breaths under the street-
light on the corner of ash and division that had you feeling deep, talking about talking and about
ancient India, before India was India, when the fourth form of matter wasn’t plasma but Sanskrit
and small talk was alchemy and sex was intercourse so people made love when they said love
and words never hungered for the realization of their descriptions and no one ever submitted to
the appetites of small sentences like I love you and I’m sorry.