Poetica 6

The neighbours don’t know my name.
They know the sound of clattering cutlery.
They know of broken door handles, our customary burglary.
They know of the usual construction we do at 2 AM every night.
They know only of the pound not the finger I’m wound on.
They know of the screams not the dreams you float on.
And I?
I know your body like a book.
Your mind like a new page.
The words you love and those that send you over.
The neighbours don’t know my name.
So let me it spell it inside you.

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