"I keep turning away from speaking of your letter. I feel - to speak of it would be contain what it did to me, to make it small. I don't want to do that. [...] Even poetry, which breaks language into meaning - poetry ossifies, in time, the way trees do. What's supple, whipping, soft, and fresh grows hard, grows armor. If I could touch you, put my fingers to your temple and sink you into me [...] - perhaps then."
— Nov 13, 2025 05:55AM
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