That dust in the windowpane at the failing light of dusk, it sings that melancholy lilt in whispers. It longs for days colored with better hours, fairer attentions paid and chances for the right moves out of each painted-into corner. Take out the pen. Spill blood ink with confidence. See things shift in the mirror, like puzzle pieces with more than one perfect mate. Slide and rearrange like leaves in Autumn stirred by cold winds that still find new homes in which to die comfortably. Pile on those changes, then dive in as children would, embracing the rich glee of abandoned consequence. Never mind the bugs that stir in the dark spaces under leaf; laugh! Sing! Dream! And the past crumbles, slow moving fjords blasted into the melt by the heat of your elegant passions and the designs of your new life’s architecture. Then stand at the apex of a re-written chapter, caught in the turmoil of constant erasure, that singular worship of happiness, and suddenly there’s only moonless nights, sunless days, the shroud of darkness like the caul over your constantly reborn soul. Resetting the path won a skin deep bliss, gooseflesh grins for a soul left barren by craft. The correction hid sorrow, a deep well from which you’ll drink through lips curled into a plastic smile.
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Thank you to @stetching.hope who not only inspired this piece through a discussion, but also shot and edited the photo. She was one of the first IG accounts I followed, and I credit her partially for me even being here doing this.
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