I am almost healed. Airplanes
turn into witches in the sky.
Borges stole my heart
in a drafty canyon, edges raw
as a reoccurring thought.
My fingers burn with greed.
I hunger for Argentinean hills
on midnight walks, passing
drunken laughter on the sidewalks
of the homeless, shoelaces untied.
Echoed plains call for me, faded silence
and stones that whisper goodbye
in autumn's voice. Longing.
Moss covers half-burned photographs
as the wind cries dust my way.
I am almost healed.
Skyscrapers cut the moon in half,
I hunger for Buenos Aires.
Turn off the lights and my eyes:
the wind licks my breath
on its way to a canyon in the air.















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