the sky is too many kinds of being, piling on top of itself in anticipation of an incipient tantrum. your wrists are laced with flowers to remember, silver glitter and black stardust and nostalgia shining dark on your skin. you want secrets in your tea. your paper heart is soaked with stains from too many spills. you don’t remember. it must be hard, to watch your body growing old. you’re trying to forget. you can’t help recalling. and the window is calling, calling, calling. you go to it. you go beyond. it is enough.
it is enough.
it has to be.