i found a piece of paper on which i'd written out a poem that KW wrote in april and sent to me on skype. he didn't tell me what it was about, but... i'm reasonably sure it's me. it was in a stack of papers and had a few books on top, and i melt when i read it.
you take me to your heart's home
willow-light, birch script lazy notes on lake borne breeze
i want to see this place in all its seasons
i want to know the road you walk down
childhood recalls you
remembrance light in cheeks flush with all your summers
i want to see this face in all its seasons
i want to know the road you walk down
i want to write a poem. the ache in me when i read beautiful words... the envy. why can't i put language together like that anymore?
i wrote so many poems about missing him, about not having him, about having him and then losing him... it's always been a challenge to write about something that doesn't come from a place of pain, but there's part of me that's still mildly surprised about not having had any poetry come to me about having him again.
how many old habits can i re-adopt in the hopes of slipping my brain back into producing poetry?
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