Friday, November 15, 2013


The white plays tricks, not sticking to one place, not stuck. It gives
premonition as its gift, the sight of aging, and of uplifted eyes. These lucky lives
I've lived separately, if not apart, they know. I'm desperate to hear it, some part of how
what's left me, who, can't really, not fully go. And she. Yes, she's here, but not now.
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