eyelashes open up
fruit with the skin peeled back
you see so much more than the day blowing in the wind,
you see what is left of the world, of us.
i want to say everything,
river overflowing, boiling, kissing
you find me at the peak of myself
a terrible creature landing, feet in ink.
season of lying on beds, anyone’s bed,
season of staying forever
never finding what we came to find,
being fine with that.
we become good at waiting.
there are no mysteries, you say,
just things we’ve forgotten
at which point i roll over
like a stone half-bathed in sun
and see, plainly, what is left of you.
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