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Odessa

Books of valuers and wooden squares find myself in your bedroom I've been dreaming about. White shirt and jean shorts, whilst the flicker of your blonde hair prolonged my mind to places of profound nostalgic incense. Your parents step in. On their hands are the letters of obliged pepper mint green ice cream and a bucket of blazed marbles, inviting us to look into the dark windows. You grab my arm for a prophetic conjecture of the final step from the cameras. Your hand leads me to the piers and your calmness virgorates by the endless, dark, Black Sea. Zero feet between you and me; you look at me with your ferocious blue eyes, and this time, you lean on my right shoulder.

Many people have refused to talk to me.

Many people have ignored my texts.

Many people have spoken to me in languages I didn't understand.

I pray that we will escape loneliness.

I pray that we will wipe our tears and

Pray in the language of divine love.

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