Famine moon. Lately there are only all these edges, and I keep tripping over them, finding yet more, as if the cosmos were merely the interior of a prism. Follow Jesus or don't.
In the beginning was the idea of shape. Lately this emphasis on semicolons, as if afraid of stopping, or maybe realizing the whole thing is just one big sentence. Everybody's got their ghosts, everybody's got a story they want to tell, everybody's got somebody they can't forget. The dead watching from whatever distance the absence of breathing forces on them.
What if nothing were relative? Lately I find myself remembering my paternal grandmother as courageous, the one who found a way through the grim plot of family to something happy and full of light. Perhaps we are soap bubbles, perhaps our overlords gave us prisms to try and teach us something.
Falling in love at the fair, then realizing how far away from everything I am, even when in love. Peach-colored skies as the day softens, souvlaki hissing on the grill. The interior state of the other is always our projection. Sharing a cold beer, shoulder to shoulder, remembering how it all got started.
Watching steam rise and curl off the coffee, watching it disappear in time, literally.
There are no monsters, not really.
I don't always recognize my body anymore, like it could be anybody's, or maybe it's a placeholder, a hostel in a remote corner of the cosmos, always reminding me I'm visiting here, not staying.
Plot loss, mission creep, goal rot and other ways to describe the problem we're having. Apples let go of the tree, topple through dewy air, thump the earth and begin a new journey - one of decomposition - one way or the other - in the grass. While in dreams I meet angels who are quiet and helpful, contextualizing metaphysics with the many stories I yet insist are one.
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