When I wake up in the early morning, my voice has abandoned ship. I try to speak but all that comes out is wind, is imperceptible apologies. He writes to say he wishes you the best, and you cannot yet gauge how the farewell sits in your senses, though you are tempted to feel free more than anything else. A season spreads out ahead of you, the road spreads out ahead of you, you feel your body change to fit your own narrative.
The illness takes you back to bed, hinders your fireworks into the sunny afternoon. You are not angry. There is no room for anger in your chest, it is full of forward motion, now, this illness sweats the last of winters stagnation out of you, drives the pretend play from under your nails.
The shoots are sprouting from the ground,
now.
It is time for you
to unfurl as well.
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