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tacked.

and there, unfinished,

tacked and smocked

the littled dress

sewn quietly with love.



i know.


i have done this,

when all else are asleep,

stitching, thinking,

listening to the rain.



when the voices stopped,

i asked how much.



one pound? yes

i will love it, thank you.



fled quickly away
you told me a story
of a hero battered and bruised
and i fell in love
with his wit and yearning
holding his face in my hands
hoping he’d lay down his sword
but slowly
his story
broke
crumbled with time
showing what he really was battling
and
there was no dragon
no villain coming in the night.  
it was just the hero
battling himself
sword forever raised
and head dipped low
unwilling to face that his story
was more or less his own
under these blue sky rays
swims deep in her oceans' gaze
loves is this blissful haze
I will love you always
be ever gentle to thy words
treat them, your tools, well,
cleansing and protecting,
wrapping them in cloths of chamois and moleskin
that they may be well conditioned and
pour forth with a temperament clear and viscous,
reflecting their high honors and a noble lineage,
they are well-intentioned to exist far longer
than your meager temporal life,
upon this ever hasty, ever perpetual, orbit

give them all respect, their fair due,
they are treasure immeasurable,
for which you have been granted guardianship,
custody received from others to be gifted onwards,
yours, but for the duration

so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction

more truffle than trifle,
find them in the dark forest of your life,
use them sparingly, just for soaring,
take them from the roots of your trees,
shave them with a paring knife,
counts them in bites and measure them in grams,
even in grains,
for words are the seasoning of our lives,
agent provacateurs that can modify the moment,
bringing out to the fore
the flavor of the underlying

speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor them at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them
Oct. 6, 2015
4:30am
Manhattan Island
he dreamed of a home,
and her, in the honey light,
and her skin, like down.
Gant Haverstick 2025
It always starts the same, like a constant repeat.
What connection struck, this guy I that I happen to meet.
It's a strange design to read a mind and want to keep it near,
to build a bond of confidence, and hold the friendship dear,
When every joke and secret shared feels like a perfect, platonic art,
Why does a hint of romance feel like a switch that pulls it all apart?
You feel the subtle shift in meaning, a question hanging in the air,
Believe the only path forward is to act as if you just don't care,
A kindred spirit in a million, a connection you can't just ignore,
What is the value of this union, when you know he's hoping for something more?
I am just closing all the windows, before he tries to break the door,
What is this closeness, what is this trust, what is this solace, if it's keeping score?
Only way comes to become gentle ghosting, why must a kindness feel so cruel?
This understanding felt so honest, 'til it became a different kind of fuel?
And how is it that as always, I feel like a villain,
I never signed up for more, now my loss to attain.
What is it now left for me, that I must keep erasing people from my lane.
I am jaded to meet anyone, to keep myself on the edge of being sane.
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