When still I feel nothing but in my leftbehind mind, unsolve another mint on my tongue. I say acid mints, becomes acid
mince is another’s ear. Is it melody or is it noise. Colours lose their ok’d meaning. Whatever time is, suddenly I have too
many. Like thawing limb my groyne tingles discomfited of its radius. Passing night cars make patterns of your sleepface.
I stare out of my eyes into my eyes until a familiar word made strange they come to be. What we know of makes non
sense. Language: have meaning. Only since some we decided to share, does it. Touching you keeps. Remind me, I makes
sense. Is it so strange, I turn over, that you here emanates more fragrant warmth than anyone else if here they were?
Because I agreed your thoughts and memories closer could come, now can it be that the body in which contains them
closes about me. Feel arrive quiet heart. At some point you could have been anyone. No it is funny, it is, I wept.
ANNINA ZHENG-HARDY is a writer living in London. Her poems and short fiction can be found in Joyland and The Offing among other publications.