i.
how strange: how little i feel now that i have been cut open, declared of no much worth, how lovely it seems to dissipate into the sun, to be one with this summer wind, to be of no tangible worth except perhaps a passing thing with no home to settle into. if you opened me up, you would find nothing inside, an emptiness so divine like a mirror; and when the night has come and gone i will be a different being, and no one will remember me, how strange, how wonderful to only be passing, to leave no forgiveness behind. the world is cruel to those who forgive, and there are no consequences to that, it’s just its way.
ii.
isn’t it a comfort to know that the world can move without you, that even when you are gone there is life elsewhere, and young love, hopeful as the pale sun in the winter’s dawn;
and flowers will bloom elsewhere, as will all the love you have left in your bones where you are buried, and will find new bodies to inhabit, new poems to lend themselves to, new words between new lovers. and all this grief will not be for nothing, all this wanting will bear its fruit, and the young love you carry in your heart, spilling from your ribcage in all its bloody abandon, will find somewhere soft to land, someone to wrap itself around, some small place to call its home.
