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I do think though there must be some purity here. Some gentle thunder of a morning that would make this more clear. Some way to admit we’re piano keys and have our lives feel more near.
There must be some word that means bluebird, but in the way that we see them. Some word that means fragile and the mercy of seasons. Some verse that says our holiness is our shared imperfections. Some place I can pilgrimage and make my confessions:
That I am the monster living under my bed. That I am the television still static-ing your head. That I have imagined greater happiness than I ever have felt. That I am the pennies I throw down the well. That I spend pieces of myself to feel deeply again. That I wrap myself in the plastic of developing trends. That I was the note that you left on the table. And you were the hope that blurred into fable.