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march hares

this time of year, here, reminds me of how very much I miss autumn, and

I pore over your words, starved for visions and starved for beauty, and

there is always one message in my spam queue right now, and

it’s so quiet, sans whispers, and

it’s so quiet, sans dreams—

don’t let me slip through my fingers again

somewhere, we must be running under lavender skies, through red and gold foxtrails of leaves

weekend melodic

21 days and counting down
a sense of nostalgia
a discarded playlist left lying around
the needle’s edge piercing skin
the ghosts of deleted selves &other kindred
the airconditioner noise in my head
dead wildlife
red postit notes
no aphrodisiac just like
a hand that grasps swollen air
& nothingness
& a sense of hope
& nothingness
not yet

still here…

there’s nothing to this new year
but a sense of neverending exhaustion
and so little to show for it, thus far…

but the stories are beating themselves against the cage door, hard
now I have held aloft a key and a vision of sky, goldensilver, gleaming

don’t leave—
not yet

 

in the forest there grew a single tree

to have a mind that is at once autumn and spring
wasteland and paradise;

but who will set the flame to my roots
and who will melt my diamonds back into tears?

it is as though I am dragging myself through a long slow late dream
and my shell is broken
even now spilling black inky liquid that might have become stars or words
across cracked pavement

and the sky is rusted

a growl lower than thunder
lupine motor machinations searing my chest

and I swore
and I swear

this is not
how it ends