Seems there's always someone I'm thinking of too much and in ways that I shouldn't. Someone unavailable or uninterested. Someone far away. Someone interested but only so much. Someone who sails away with someone else, or lives with someone else, or is still in love with someone else. Someone I want to write to but I promised myself I wouldn't. And so I write here instead.
My words don't have the right shape to hold the things I'm longing for. My words are like soggy ashes. My longing is like smoke. My heart is like a rabbit with blood on its fur running blindly. My sadness is the crow's beak, sharp and persistent, full of cries in a language I don't understand. My hunger is like a fist, all my tendons ache with it.
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