How beauty
must forage inside our mourning:
Are reminiscences proper ant hills?
Your rind. Almost
“gentle”, your arrow inside yourself, amen <3
You aren’t doing all that self-accepting aching ladylike!
In another versi0n,
your arms are leading, laundering,
redundant.
ARE REMINISCENCES PROPER ANT HILLS?
what's inside is not to be unbroken,
the twine of nothing to mend. . .
In the stairway we swell
Me go
in a different dimension
around an impenetrable sweet.
Now,
it’s raining outside
but I'm safe under this awning.
A couple walks past me
holding hands in their pajamas.
I’m watching love
but why does it always feel like mourning