I am wearing sweaters in July, after a heat wave, but that’s not the worst of it. The worst of it is that every time you speak I drift, dissolve into the chill that creeps and becomes my bones on a cold night. The worst of it is that I can bring nothing to the forefront of my mind to convince myself to try again.
I broke into crumbs trying to figure out the icing.
You are like white/light-blindness. There is no warmth in your contours, no extension in your colour and my wool just itches at keeping me warm. Senses are only senses if you feel them. Abrupt betrayal by a guide is bowel-emptying at its most instantaneous. What is forward?
What is my fault, and which footstepinseam was yours?
Like a disoriented pet sitting by the road in the rain after having bitten a child. It wasn’t his fault.
But like the first book we ever talked about, kindness is complicated.