slipped glyph. this and that; wracked in some silly, heady packrat skyscraper of leaning light.
then's flicker of vague regret hangs around, because life. because letting go is never really, ever, fully possible. misremembrance -now- retracing my..
it was as though you had written, signed and sealed those few words themselves, with your own blood and bone
and yet i can- not recognize my own penmanship anymore,
nor this, here, outstretched hand.
howamievenhere?
*because a winged thing, other, has this history by the tail,