a slight return and a violent attack

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the work does not end.











the wind blew with a certain carelessness towards allowing the leaves to remain static. the white laundry on the wet cord outside flapped like open mouths with deep sounds of fabric warring with the breeze. the window was not warm. i looked outside through the glass, and wondered if the wind was cold and whether or not it would tangle my hair should i stand facing north. it was a certain, soft form of questioning that i felt amidst peace and hurt, the dull closing of love and the inability to want more for fear of repeating the same mistakes.









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