#wtwrites

Dear Stranger,   It’s been a while since we’ve talked. I know the days keep coming like the dam broke and I’ve used all my fingers to try to stop it. We’ve got time wading around our ankles.   How have you been these days? I think of you when the moon is round and full; how so few things can escape from being touched by it. Whether you’d like to admit it or not, you’re like that, too. So far away and knowing. So quiet and glowing.   I know, at some point, I will have to end these ramblings, this self-talk to a stranger, but it won’t be today. I will keep writing until you know that you’re never too much, never unnoticed, never not thought about.   So, ‘til we meet or miss each other again,   Yours.

my body - a hall of scars

she stayed up late for him, the moon has become her good friend, smiling at her like Cheshire, as if he knows a secret she doesn’t, and maybe he does. the stars twinkle, encouraging her to open her eyes. she’d sneak a cup of coffee to her room, downing it in big gulps, hoping that it’d keep her awake. she waited and cried when he didn’t come. she smiled madly when he did come, 5 hours later. yes, the moon did know a secret she didn’t know. she couldd write pages of poetry, long strings of sentences, and palaces of paragraphs about him, for him. and yet, he couldn’t even write her a one-paragraph letter. she clings to him like life support, when he was live wire. she loved him dangerously, risking everything just for him. she has risked everything. and so here we are now. she will not be missed.

This Body, an Open Wound

4.1.18