sarvamentu [L.B.]

*continues to write nothing at all*

I sing of soft longings On a local radio In fog Love used to unveil Come back in the afternoon With the manufactured Most honest joy First steps into paradise Last ones before the world came together

I know now how the pines felt, in those heady first few days, when flowers bloomed for the first time. I understand how their resin dark hearts cracked and they spread their arms willingly to the cold forgetfulness of snow. You are four states and nine hundred miles away, and oh, how I know what the pines felt, when the fickle butterflies abandoned them, forever… ~~~~~ weird fact: butterflies are much older than flowering plants