You said, “How will I find you again?” And I didn’t know.
Here, I stand orange in the long fields of silence between us. An anguish I refuse to acknowlege creeps in my neck at night, and washes at my tongue. I want to use the long fields to burn you in effigy, as I burn, turning from my own heart, but my hands won’t relinquish your shape. I remain among the grasses where I went when I left you. No path here. But I remember when there was.
The clouds refuse to hear me. The answer to your question: that kind of finding is past, we believe
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