#thoughtandforgotten

Pour me another glass, I’ll buy our next round. Keep us warm. Dreamlit bar on a Wednesday. No alcoholics Only anonymous. Watch the bottom of your glass where golden luck shivers and hides your fortune. Bottoms up until the lights turn on. Keep the taps flowing.

7 billion trees cut down per year, billions more wait, solemnly alive. 7 billion humans living— gone, in one day? I can only imagine a quiet last day, if luck allows, with loved ones. Sleep the day away, enjoy each others’ spaces, eat good food— homecooked— drink horrible wine— good wine’s expensive. Share those dreams that will always be reality in my dreams, and now remembered in our memories— the most eternal reality of them all. One last song of clinked wine glasses, laughter, and cheers.

my arms are full of pillows and my pillows miss your hair

Dead leaves quiescent pop crackle until snow grows Reappearing rivers break through ice petrified maple Morning sun goodbye to midnight's dew on bone dry veins

Spring is my favourite season on the darkest days of winter (but not the nights). I want it the most, when quiet becomes silenced, and my fingers ache, don't tingle; cause: frozen air choking the blood inside me. I look forward to spring—so much, oh man— that wet muddy season of rebirth and growth and growing pains, when I crumple dead leaves in my fist. Blood stains my journal—dripping from dry split lips and dry cracked palms. That's when I wish for drowning spring rivers, sloshing the grey winter gush away.

Florence is the beauty of a metropolis sprawling history detached from my own, so that I may walk amongst the art through the years and look only for beautiful words and pictures . The crux of the matter is this: language without utility gives voice to a different sort of music, only heard if I listen carefully.

I whispered to you, “I’ll be your sun” in reply to this question: “I love you (do you love me?).” And I am the mother of— Ladybugs birthing, my namesakes, crunching leaves on trees now turning red, and persimmons children shake and catch, not yet ripe. Frozen snow melting into rough rivers running down the canal; we skated it together. Red tulips for friendship— All these are my beloved responsibilities, but the sun likes to rest, too. Dear, will you be my moon?

twice goodbye is fare thee well well we said see you soon but the tears welling up wave farewell