The moon vine’s second flower has wilted significantly. I break its stalk, place it in water, hide it in the shadows under the bed. Lost love is a useless motif. The drops from the faucet are fat. I’ll water everything by grief.
I take the coffee to the parlor. Orange light pours in from the street, muted blue from the sky. No one else lives here—there is no one to tighten my breath against. I tighten my breath against myself, against notions and images. I must be ever-unloading, ever-awaiting, ever-adjusting, ever-constructing.
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