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robyn
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hardly
if we are all just mirrors of the places we've born witness to, then i would still love him for all of it
backtrack
two things. I. if i loved you any less i would still swallow you whole -- II. that moment when you leaned in near to me to say something just as fragile; i was too caught up on slowing my heart to pay attention, i always miss the important parts
stillness
he doesn't talk to me about the silver lining he says, if i don't know it, he can't take me there; it's a stillness in the collapsed lungs between our breaths, and in the morning when he wakes up beside me he pulls a journal from underneath his bed writes down last night's dream and doesn't let me read at breakfast he will peel an orange and for the rest of the day his hands will smell like sweet citrus, but by breakfast i'll be gone and have to remember them from the moving distance of my car
welcoming
i want to see a plot-driven theory answering the mechanics of the world why did you move to move (stepping over grass, you've made the soil too dense for worms to crawl to the surface -- every tiny bit of life is given to you from another's)
exactly
she said Hell is waiting for a definition. The in-betweens of one woman's finger's from the next, a man plays music by their candle-lit table, and they look into each other's eyes and just as all the room starts to sway from the jesting of diners - pointing with their forks - but when they stand up to leave (the bill was split) it is a hug with one arm (the weight of purses in priority) and when they begin to walk it is in different directions forks breaking the skin of steaks.
exactly
nothing comes in as hard or as fast as the asymmetrical wanderlust that accompanies short-range shotguns in the passenger side of a two-door truck whose backseat you had to climb into before 4-a-m or risk being late to a cross-country road trip spurred by an existentialist fear projected onto the limits of geography & even though it's the closest to prayer you'll get it's the angriest you've been in a while, reasons to be against your father are substitutions for confession, he puts the guns in the front
aperture
the nostalgia of strangers' photo albums; if i were to put something on the coffee table for the entertainment of waiting visitors i am not sure it would be my childhood and i have been coached that domestic success will manifest as annual portraits of well-dressed young couples in the holiday season but the longest partner i ever held (for three days, arms-in-arms, legs&legs) had matted hair and tangles for the kind of photos lovers only exchange among each other; the snapshot of the back of your thigh framed on the kitchen counter, we have not decorated for winter.
scalp
william puts cigarettes out on the back of his palm; forearm tattoo that reads 'grace' and bicep that says 'forever', his step-father was a minister. in grade ten he set the janitor's car on fire for molesting the freshman girls, he talks about ultimate respect and his own inadequacies. we both know he thinks too much and the hours between 5pm when we first meet and 2am when i become too cold are spent looking in mirrors of each other, testing sentences, saying 'me too.' i think every person i've kissed is the one, me too.
stamped
this idea of homecoming: that after the long end has passed you will come to me as though i am an identifiable place that can be found, and static, and claimable; i would love to map the movement of people like constellations, if your morning route left traces i could see from the sky -- i have been less romantic than this but one day we'll be old and think of all the stories we could've told and even loving you will be finite
scale
he could make my body new in white cloth; but i will not stand before a minister for anything, not even for his bearing of witness (and so they say, lord, for everything a reason --) autumn was for whiskey and every shot i took was aimed at your rocky mountain spine,
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