They wore upon my spirit,
not in the way that hurricanes hit,
but in the way earth was born.
My words grew cold
but I still say them in stillness
and with love.
I do not complain
but the black-pitched mornings
and sleepless dawns,
the wistful dreams, and those forgotten.
My silent self, and the other…
all those crumbling parts of me
ceaselessly descend deeper into my core.
Not deep enough to vanish
but deep enough to remake me.
An infinite chain of autumns
that keeps killing me
and yet keeps me alive.
