word strings wrapped in feeling.
i imagined we might be together some day.
but to connect the meek and the weary
ballads and lanterns weren’t enough.
i missed your heart and songs
unsung just don’t belong between the yellowed pages
of love and inquiry.
what sad rush of freedom, tender dust of multiple centuries
again and again attempting to block a past of immanent discovery
now speaks
to my heart in a poem?
i want the conclusion of this to be your final betrayal.
i want you to weep for this fruitless endeavor.
i mean realism
in a bottle of water.
i mean silence
in each step of grace.
i mean despair.
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