the last few days of winter and i’m in my big sweater under my big flannel shirt under a sun that doesn’t want to set and the air smells sweet and the aspens hold their flowering twigs up to the light
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sunlight in an empty school room. a mug of green tea steaming on a wide windowsill. your handwriting barely legible in the margin of my notes.
i remember my head always aching with words. and my hands too, but with something else, something less clean. you hated that i smoked in the car and i hated that you wanted to kill yourself. later there was a reversal, and i often think of what would’ve happened if we’d both wanted the same thing at the same thing.
the gray fox in the cemetery. the rusting swing set out on the beach. the way the sky leaked pink through the trees all winter.
What do you remember of that other world?
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i have been feeding the story on my own blood all along
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listen to me, okay? the story exists because we told it. it doesn’t matter if we never make it there, you can’t convince me it exists any less. did we tell each other how it ends? then we’ve already been through it. we’re safe.
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january behind us. every morning for the last week the thrush meets me in the woods to remind me of my vow of tenderness. a vow that's a stone in my pocket, carried everywhere. the little thrush flutters from the thin arms of a black cherry to a low slung oak. the dog leads me to four spots of blood on the leaves. and now the pines to the west burn in the fresh sun and the thrush has left us for the day.
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beech forest - scotland 2023
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thin light
the light in the city every morning is bled out. we take the train in, get off in the north, and walk along the sea wall. eighteen feet of concrete, three feet wide, twenty nine miles long. if you slip, on one side you’ll fall into the gutter of chemical sludge, shell casings, rusting things and glowrats travelling along it all. on the other side, the sea will take you. in some places the waves burn on their crests and crash smoking into the wall.
we come out here to look for ships. white bones on the horizon. if we see a plane we run.
for @nosebleedclub 1.4.24
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for @nosebleedclub 1.1.24
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1.1.23 @nosebleedclub prompt
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you’ve kept the myth waiting for too long and it’s had so much time to sharpen itself on your bones
THE MYTH IS HUNGRY FOR ITSELF
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