I think I got tired of avoiding the questions. Thinking about you thinking about the questions was like one of those sped-up time-lapse montages of a flower straightening up to the sun and unrolling its petals, or the endless black of night softening into spectacular day, or the relieved deliquesce of the thaw. A flicker of long-forgotten feeling. Life just barely preserved beneath faces and personas and implications and the exhaustiveness of always dealing.
Faded truths are traded; something solders, smolders.
Too possessive. Your small discoveries were my biggest fears, but they chipped free from the ossified secret without effort. None. Whatsoever. What the fuck. It’s hard to figure out what you want for yourself when a warm hand grabs on and guides you. But you can’t skip the solstice into spring.