I could have sold you
stars like apples, or paper
cranes in chains for miles.
My arms were full of mixtapes
then, my younger heart an island
of dirt held together by cotton
thread and pride. What I had
was always enough, maybe too much
at the time. Later, as a stranger
I wandered through a town built
on reclaimed land, sea-dust still
drying on its roads and roofs,
already starting to become soot,
a town I took with me because
I couldn’t stay there myself.
You can’t buy that today.
What I carry in this thoracic
space isn’t always for sale,
but some things I eventually give
away. In the end, everything I keep
turns into music. Someday there will be
nothing here worth trading.


Deviant Art: thetachi546