You can’t have two worlds in your hands
and choose emptiness.
I do not believe in the beauty of falling.
If I could/bind myself to this moment, to the slow//snare of its scent/what would it matter if I became//just the flutter of page/in a text someone turns//to examine me/in the wrong color?
Without you my air tastes like nothing. For you I hold my breath.
There’s plenty that poetry cannot do. But the miracle, of course, is how much it can do, how much it does do.
Days go by when I do nothing but underline the damp edge of myself.
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