It's Hard To Be a Saint in the City

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(Source: ulfurs, via unholyquatrain)

The Catch

I’m not homesick—never been homesick—

But on those certain mornings, in certain yellow lights,

I’m caught

Within a crisp breath of crystalline air

Or in the slight flutter of little leaves tinkling on china branches

And I’m nine, ten, eleven, walking out,



Behind my brittle wooden house, watching my breath

Billow and fade in orange

Mittens catching yellow leaves