Life is here.

Life here is still life and it stays lifelike in front of my eyes. It resembles everything that’s been said already and then it resembles nothing. The warm, candid nothing that’s like a bird’s feathers, like comfort, like some remnants of home, like a familiar garden.

It’s good to have green again, in the potted plant, in my scarf, in your irises. I know that colors fade and nothing lasts and that nobody can support that much weight. I know that my grandma’s strawberry patch has long been sold and reappropriated like her mind. I know these things, but I still can’t seem to stop myself from tearily living them.


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