Home?sick – Sofija Popovska

January 29, 2026

I am neither good nor bad, but loving makes me so. My soul sheds and there is little left. A dream bruised on the needlepoint of infinity. Looking closer, the diamond core of an airship, sentimental gears oiled with the conversation of dada angels. A museum in this endless subway corridor and the tiles are yellow windows in the purple soup of dusk. As seen from the edge of the pond, a lonely WW2 machine gun worn away here and there by the acidity of acoustic songs wafting down from a mathematical point in space where someone could be waiting by the window for someone who will never arrive. I approach the pond and it retreats deeper into itself, taking the moon with it. The forest forgot me and began to look different. If I could reach into the warm grey place between my ribs where this city lives. It is so wide and blue it makes me sick. Nowhere is more space for a soul. But it lives in the small golden interface between the morning sun and the top of a pine tree.