Another heat wave rolls in, slows the pace on the sidewalks, the asphalt melting into a sticky goo, holding you briefly with each step, asking do you really want to go to the place where you are going? I try to rise early, but jet lag buries me for hours, I wander around the shoebox that is my home and cannot remember what it is to feel. He says te adoro while you shed another layer of cloying affection from your rib cage, ignorantly indifferent. You know this iteration too well. Build layers of buffering distance instead, try to remember what it was like when you wanted.
This time is yours,
you know.
It is up to you what you make of it.
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