The lungs are filled with the image undone by Ivan Leontyev
Here, at the edge, there is nothing but space,
Here, at the edge, there is nothing but time.
The lungs, filled with fresh air, are unfulfilled,
For, the mind is tired, lost in the distance.
And in it, there is an image of you, blurred and almost non-existent,
For, the distance is too great to comprehend.
The fingers are almost touching your silhouette, which
Is made of fresh air, which
Enters the lungs, but never reaches the mind,
For, it transforms into something else in the process.
Ivan Leontyev was born in Saint Petersburg, Russia on February 18, 1996. He writes in
his third language, the second being Spanish, a gift from his mother. His book is The Last Love
of the Digital Age. His other work is forthcoming in Straylight Literary Arts Magazine (Fall
2026).
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