Hanger

Photo by artă obraznică

Hang, Hang, Hang,

The indiscernible curvature

Of your pen

Slides, effortlessly

Against my wall.

The midnight madness seeps

Through

My poreless barrier

Silently

Like a shiny swiss army knife

That dances

Through

Ivory tofu.

And then

I had a hanger.

And then

I stealthily

Hung up my private laundry

Soft ribbons

Of half formed thoughts

And sighed

Slowly

And

The hanger

Broke

And

Everything

Fell

Silkily

Gracefully

To the ground.