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Willow bows, exhaled—
a hundred arms swaying slow,
braiding hush with time.

My old, out-of-tune piano,
when I play Metamorphosis by Philip Glass
through black-and-white eyes
speaks of me more truly
than a long, dramatic script.
Metamorphosis by Philip Glass One
Like surgeons we cut people open
in search of their  faults
we pinpoint and extract them
for us to examine
only to find
the most repulsive of them
are our own
Willow limbs susurrate in clandestine murmurs,
brushing the lake’s gouache-green reflections.
Beneath—jellyfish effloresce, spectral inhalations,
ghost-thin, unmoored, drifting toward oblivion.

Dandelions unravel, golden tendrils severed,
carried off in the lungwork of wind.
A musk rose lingers—feral, aching,
its scent curling like unshed weeping
beneath the hush of twilight’s jaw.

Chevy lilts down arteries
stitched in coral marrow,
leather still inked with your laughter,
your dark brown eyes—
blackwood, abyss, a gravity
I would fall into, fracture utterly..

Et pourtant, je t’attends, infiniment.

And in this risette of evening,
where sky spills into sea, salt-lipped, weeping,
I wait—
soft, surrendered, affetuoso,
a note held past silence, raw, humming.

For my best friend of 7 years
No matter how far the roads stretch, your laughter still lingers—stitched into the marrow of memory, a warmth I will always return to.
sometimes
some things
have to die
in order for
blessings
to arrive.
~ From the depths of pain, comes a blessing..
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