maelynslavik

There is a language 
spoken only in half-glances, 
in the weight of a pause 
just before someone smiles. 

the world is orange

and i mean orange 

like a sepia photo in which your grandparents

stand stiff & silent,

unsmiling, their clothes starched

for the occasion,

When I was small,

the sky was a storybook—

every page dotted with stars

too many to count,

each one whispering my name.

But now the nights glow

with lights that never sleep.