May 2013
April 2013
March 2013
“
The mountains like bones
go by, not thinking of you.
This is the emptiest thought:
to not miss you any longer.
To forget the peaks and
moments and miles you
piled atop dinner plates and
into paintings. To strive
to recall the white skin on
the shelf of your hip. To arrive
in a flat bright city at
midnight and step from
a new blue truck, see a
different light, breathe
a different breath without
noticing you are not there.
Play
1:21
