thread the needle. stand on my own.

my throat had overgrown so thick i could get nothing out, words: broken pieces lodged and incomplete. it had been three weeks since the sun eclipsed the shadows underfoot, eternity since the taste of your body reminded me of love.

perhaps we move through the things which refuse to move through us. we push and inch along to pass the time, to extend the distance between ourselves as we may be and ourselves as we once were. in the quiet static behind an evening door, i touch myself to feel alive.

another day turned into dusk, pours itself from bottles of wine. unable to move beyond my own bones, my own howling mind, i type letters by the watery light of woolen snow.

this life is the imminent stroke of midnight just next to me, i feel her breath against my cheek. footsteps, coming dark. they arrange to feed us what they cannot accept, hoping we will be strong enough.



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