here in the small stop of your love, i tried to know your sorrow. how many deaths could you take in a day? what made you stumble forward into the sun? you’d sit molting on old animal leather and i’d whisper that i had help in my hands. not much, you’d remind. on weekends, it could not cook or learn to keep celine alive. big ideas would see beauty flopping to an end. fish slapping against sunlight. last night playing over again. i’d apologize. you wouldn’t. then i would look at eyelashes becoming caterpillars, at how they mistook your current chrysalis as a leaf, how they were eating the butterflies of your eyes.
don’t, you’d blink. don’t think i am a poem. i am poetry. and i will go on.
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