This is the almost By Marisa Silva-Dunbar

This is the almost

Hotel in our hometown,
the horizon burns as dusk
approaches. This is before I stop
wanting a thousand sleeps
with you across the world.

We talk about a place in the heart
of the French Quarter during Jazz fest.
Take me to tarot readers on sidewalks, as
the moon glows above us, let’s find ghosts
in the misty alleyways at dawn. I want
the heat burned into our skin and memories.

We start listing other destinations,
where we can hide in plain sight from
the world and our worries. I hold these
hopes in my hands that your promises are not empty

This is before the erosion of faith in you.

It is never a good time to explain how you wound,
how indulging those who bulldoze you—to achieve
their own desires—doesn’t crush just you.

How you slip stones down my throat
so everything is garbled—I am weighted
down with words you don’t want to hear.

I know how you have diminished me to others
with your lies, when it counted most.

By Marisa Silva-Dunbar


Marisa Silva-Dunbar’s work has been published in 24 Neon Magazine, Chantarelle’s Notebook, Cabinet of Heed, and Marias At Sampaguitas. She is a contributing writer at Pussy Magic. Her work is forthcoming in Drunk Monkeys, Sybil Journal, and The Charles River Journal. Marisa is the founder and EIC of Neon Mariposa Magazine. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @thesweetmaris

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