Blog,
Looking into the window of the building across the street, I wonder if they are writing poetry. Everyone is concerned with the way we make up words.
I am trying to remember the artist of a song my friend played for me. I also like imagining how the song goes, and playing it in my head over and over.
Breath is where I would begin an ethics of being naked. Through the means of air. I write here to be unclothed. Do you whisper when you read? Or, keeping your mouth closed, rub your vocal chords together?
I spent the week writing a poem of profound love for a friend. I am going to tell my workshop it is meant to be thrown to the sky.
In the library, a friend I haven't seen since the summer when we ate hummus after her performance, rubbed my back. I am still thinking about it as I drink my coffee and watch the air mix outside my window. Sometimes I am reluctant to touch, but I can be broken down easily.
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