• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 04
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Every time I dream of you
I’m photographs of all the kitchens
I’ll never get to cook in, I smell
of clean sheets hanging out to dry,

and I move like a glass of red wine
spilt in a full theatre, splashing no-one.
And it’s only when I wake that I feel
like mismatched china in a castle
tea-room where the scones are too dry,
all the postcards are of somewhere else,

but I don’t care because there are still
so many things I wish I could tell you
like how a flock of butterflies is called
a flight, dolphins sleep with one eye open,
all babies are born looking like their fathers,
and when I had my tarot cards read

I learnt it's the fool who travels the furthest.