I hear the rattling, the ticking, and my Grandfather’s tinnitus (perhaps not), All the unheard aspects now, so therefore make a wish, Just one, and only one. For the evening had already set, As I waited for you—(and I near turned) all the timbre from your state, I sat down, Drank a cup of water, and I fluttered all over to make that very call. That tone, the sight of perception, not dozing on Winter’s fracture, That slung branch gone and lost, dying in a day
Dedicated to camp counselor Mushki.
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it was memoirs hung by wings, by the man’s madness; dither now or die in memory. The moon shall forever watch as reprieved temporarily, the misremembrance of the egg we asunder, pierced by the vagary in empty spaces; I was always a worm on those days
You taught me that there is good and bad in this God awful place. But now you’re gone Now all can I see is darkness
terms of comparison seems irrational Earth is diverse
you can never hear my voice, but you will see my eyes shift to the ground spending reflection—who are you, you, you are little known, and that’s okay, as a faceless shore, we do not need to be known.