I buried my body wrapped in cotton, thicker than tongues opening night, gleamed me out like Christian snow; saw it sprout wildflowers  so she poured sea salt on my grave; a month was never enough to not know how your skin smells. My intestines are black currant wine and tangerines, my mind is made up to bloom and boom, this is the sad song of cauterizing the wound you saw coming like the blade balanced on your skin but you were too afraid of what you’d do without steel so you just tried to stay steady. I am yearning for the churning of a radiant grace but understand the subdued nature of time. Love is when someone always thinks you’re the funniest person in a room, I told her one night, and we knew we were everything some moments. I only miss the concept of what we had; your foliage fell and I see your dry rot.


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