I'm writing this because of many many circumstances that seemed to lead me though the cold to a place where I do not live, away from clutter and intrusions and right smack into purple death-by-glitter folders, deep blue couches and closed coffee shopes.
But its not where this stops. no.
nothing comes from nothing.
so i've been shoveling in somethings, like coal into a huge industrial fire, engine engine
the engine that could, and tried, and is scared now
because she figured out
how strangely dear you have become to her.
and i remember when the time passed slow and it was a little cold, my exhaled air, my calmed tears, my smile catching up. white white white flower smell.
and the antique key i found on my sister's floor had no intention. until i found out it opened something in me when i gave it to you.
and to answer a question,
hey, i love you. like a wind flower, like a friend, like a poet who picked her pen up from the floor, like someone who decided not to shut doors, like i dont know what to do about it, love.
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