I feel—to speak of it would be to 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 finger to your temple and sink you into me the way Garden does—perhaps then. But I would never.
So this letter instead.
— Aug 29, 2025 01:52PM
Add a comment