Bury Me In Letters Like These

A Spin Off

I can’t bend my back like this for too long, not much longer. It begins to strain and ache.
My frail hands have left rosy imprints on my cheeks and my face is warm and wet.
I find myself resonating with Alred Stieglitz, from a piece only meant for two.
“What do I want from you? Sometimes I feel I’m going stark mad. That I ought to say,
“Dearest, you are so much to me that you must not come near me. Coming may bring you darkness instead of light and it’s an everlasting light you should live.”

Good God, I have found myself watching the sunlight drip over new leaves that twist like a kaleidoscope and there is something in the way that I move on. Someone once said that “things do not get easier because they get quieter.”
And I bet that you couldn’t imagine how I often long for storms in June.
I am composing a new kind of way to be. Planning ahead feels like sandpaper that ebbs and glides until I am flattened and numb.
The tail end of this does not fix me and the drives home do not become more subtle
And despite a curdled bust and a crystalized line down to my jaw
Just before the edge breaks – I am home. I am Georgia on a new train home.
To Alfred, from lost encounters of love, I am moving on too.


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