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Emma June Jun 2017
We set the stage
and charted letters,
mapped out kisses and sorrows
like continents
waving across waves.

We gripped the soil
with our toes.
All the soft days
of pilgrimage
set chronologically in stone.

Our marches wavered
with trepidation.
We clutched souvenirs
of shattered glass
from our own starting place.

All that encompassed
no longer held face,
but we buried our diary pages
in cold clay,
heading north before day break.

But the gibbering waters,
they will break and toil,
eroding memories,
softening edges
of turmoil we create.

Ceaseless wanderers,
speak out your names
and swallow your old ways.
Unpack your bereavement
to strip it of its weight.
“Growing up is losing some illusions, in order to acquire others.”
--Virginia Woolf
Emma June Jun 2017
This home—
this compilation of bricks and stones,
rough and speckled
from seasons had and passed.
glue and insects
crawling in the woodwork,
carving out paths
of pits and channels.

I once knew that step,
tripped over it with tiny feet,
with questioning heels,
friends and lovers in tow.
once knew that kitchen windowsill
where I carved my name
(but later swore I didn't),
silently retaining the lie
over years of meals on
smooth wooden tables.

I put the holes in these walls
I shed my skin in these rooms
my existence echoes through these halls.
and I sign my name in dirt, i was here.

— The End —