You will end, self; your chapter book pages will shed. But not yet. Don’t live like brittle paper.

You are seasons, self, and you are whispers.

In this infinity, you are atoms and you are a moments.

You have soap for stained head-spaces. You have clear water and fresh air and a clothesline for your thoughts.

My dear, my self, you have wind and rain and autumn. There may not be gardens in this moment, but they will come. They always do. You have sunlight and cut grass. You have stolen birdsong they can’t pull from secret places in your ears.

You have words and colors.

You are poetry. This is music. You are breathing, self.

Living is drinking salt water, is turning inside out. Living is droplets on windows, is petals on dirt. Living is mixed metaphors.

You are a scrapbook self, coffee-stained, unfinished. Nostalgia is nails in you, is perfume—life is pain, is pleasure. You are a two-sided coin, self.

Night does not erase day. Storm cells steal half an hour. Winter dies.

Don’t forget, my dear, pain ends too.




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