The room is stifling with
The sad cafe tends to its ghosts
but we are more than grateful to forget.
There are no secrets among these
desolate lovers disfigured by life.
We inhale circlets of smoke
that linger in the air and taste lips
The night arches its back
to drunken angels so we dance
beneath stars that meet us halfway.
“Knowing” by Andrew Atroshenko