there lies a steady promise in the ink of night:
a pot full of indelible black potential;
an unmade bed, pure white yet
is a fresh page,
and the walls we unpeel ourselves in
are leather-clad with bound corners.
leave cursive on the square of crumpled linen
two bodies curled like contorted quills
under the warm blanket of feathers and darkness
hold me —
in the hollow of your throat
like a fragmented phrase
dawn as our imminent epilogue,
our greedy hands tore the ending up;
in the quiet air
until nothing was left
but lonely covers.
Soph Gibson is a visual artist and writer currently studying BFA in Visual Arts. In an attempt to unravel the complexities of the human experience, both Gibson’s visual art and creative writing often includes layers of metaphors and an indulgence in sensorial delight.
Follow them on Instagram at aviusart.