(not quite) a literary journal


Gravity, by Andrew Rihn

You and I: we were rats together, once.
We made sense, made each other
legible. Clouds of dust
were forming into planets and stars,
the nebula of our handwriting.

Rats are honest but never tell the truth. 
Or vice versa. Perpetual feastday 
in this haunted universe, 
you and I remain, as if 
the unspoken, the understood,
the wick and the flame.

Antidote, elemental.

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