and the crows who walked away from the corners of my eyes, they could no longer nest in my bottom eyelashes, too obscured by the egg-shaped tears that had rolled down the sides of my German nose. they had leaked from the ocean-blue wells, where the crows had flown from the blackness we all have in common – pupils all the same color, even if our souls are not.

and the caffeinated ants, who walked into my coffee, not knowing they would dive to the depths only to find their deaths at the bottom of the vanilla that didn’t really come from France and the coffee created by brothers who might have come from hills, but more likely their last name was just Hill, the coffee that was brewed by my mom two or three days ago in an old-fashioned pot on a stove that she has to light with a match – the pilot left in a jet, too lazy to leave a forwarding address.


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