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Same anger, same pages. Told like riddles, arching over our own fingers clasped. Slings for the arrows, a diary of scars, a way of knowing someone. Keys to young girls’ telephones and typewrites from days gone by. If the awkward letters, uncorrected felt funny on the tips of our tongues, no one would say. No place would deserve its resting. Same thunder, same storm. Flags flown into cruel winds and years in the hundreds. Arms burned like proof of desire. Suns, supernovas we sketched at our necks, lives remembered and worn on the wrists. That same old jewelry. Same holding, same pockets. The moon was its own story swallowed without saying. Rivers deemed holy because of proximity. Now let us dream of rebirth, duties, souls scattered like broken bark built by these ancient trees. These old gods that reached across skies to shine and shield and shun the staggering sentences we hadn’t learned to write. Same eyes, same echoes. Same arguments with the deceased, polite and passive. Animals caged and closed, we sneak around these fences and build our own. Pretend we invented it all, the telegraph, the lindy hop, the color coded sunsets. I will say it when you go. You will remember the shape of my mouth cooling itself with words wrestled wide.
