Already the moving on hurts. Already what was so present past. The place, the time where we were is just me. And the dissappearing present evades.When reading blogs becomes the. When describing the changes becomes the. When soon the memories will be just those and the reality escapes a little further.
But now, this view, this city of god's workhorses, these cactuses, these weeping willow trees and slants of light at mid. This chance to renew. This chance to reconvene. This moment of newness and wonder.
The past elided. The future rushes over. Writing perhaps the only.
1 comentario:
oh, how the body becomes the final depository of memory, and the sorrow that accompanies this process.
i feel it.
Publicar un comentario