“im sorry” january had said too cold out here to open the door fathers hands are too frozen for her to let go reluctantly you went back out into the snow waiting for the next train to boston she didnt feel you gone just yet “im sorry” january had said my fathers bones perishing like the breakable limbs of a birch veiled in ice
today is one of those days where everything just feels right. as i am writing this i am sitting on my bed, which is parallel with the window. the sun is streaming through my blinds and reflecting off of the brightly colored leaves framing my view. it smells like fall. that crisp clean smell, that when you breathe it in you feel full and at ease. its just one of those days that gives you clarity about everything.
A rock is all but keeping me grounded. In its stony gaze looms devotion and persuades my feeble core. As I smooth its slate curves in my palm, it slips through my graceless fingers and cracks on the concrete. Once an unwrinkled stone, now pitted with fiction. With this I find lust is the weapon of deceit.