I love you. Your forehead; my lips. Your rings; my giving. Your lifeless body; my ring. My ring; your body leaving. My longing; your pinkie finger. My decision; topaz side by side. I love you.

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Narrative on a Wound

The wound, the wound. You know that bearded man, the one who died?  The one who died angry, who wrapped himself around me and I led him out?  Well it’s been a year now and I’ve been angry (again).  He never said good bye.

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(no) superhero

Grief and joy are opposites.  Except that grieve is the preferable word because it is not static.  And if you let it live all of its lives, joy is a word that whispers constantly. And softly.

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I didn’t intend to build an altar. I don’t worship.  But I knew what had to stand in place of that guitar.  And I know honouring now, like I did not before.  Like a parent, I guide and narrate what is left of me – what grows – now that there is no body with which to commune.  

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Show me the money

And to those with their nose in their wallets, I raise my cup high. That kind of discontent is not to be held, nor will it be caught by me.  The only blessing to which I assign value is this peace, this beautiful peace that tells me that nothing was lost.  All is, as it should be.  

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Now, judgement and want are curiously similar.  I have something in my hand – something received – and I might witness how it changes me.  I remain, both filter and vision.  

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