Arcana number sixteen.
Six thunder strikes
from the bells tower,
in the order of things.
Clean morning smell.
The void of extrasystoles
echoes that of your memory
on the other side of the bed.
Eyes stuck like clams.
It’s either nocturnal salines
or me unlearning to see
any major difference.
I lost you in summer.
In my best nightmares
it’s always dead sunny
with a chance of storms.
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