tell me, what does she look like? she wears my face but Iβve never met her. the devilβs in the details, and you never got close enough to the seams. the threads were tangled, but you saw something neat.
the paint has cracks. the glass is scratched. the fibers are worn. the paper was ivory before. the ink spilled, itβs on the skin. peel an orange, taste the bitter pith.
tell me, how does she sound? she holds my voice, but youβve not heard her scream. youβve not listened to her weep. mourning isnβt only for the dead, but the living too. Iβm at the funeral planned for me. it was last minute. but death doesnβt wait. I didnβt know Iβd die so soon from your memory.
is erasing me better than remembering?
My prose recognizes yours. This feels so familiar yet so new every time I read you
oh to have the grip on words the way you do π you arrange words so meaningfully and so artistically β i would subscribe especially of you were a worm (imagine a worm writing masterpieces like this πͺ±)