‘nothing’ by Andrew McMillan

  nothing which is really the sound of everything     slowly if you write poetry and are even passably handsome my heart will pretend it loves you for a while   all I know is      the first empty bed for weeks      the first tea of morning   the man who was scared of paper was papyrophobic as though making something unpronounceable diminishes it’s horror   the … Continue reading ‘nothing’ by Andrew McMillan