her ghost
10/21/2026, 6:45:28 AM
Our song's an elegy Where to? My wren, time is a tape running with our rustle. Today I breathe your dust again in this TCE haze, a dry-cleaning cell called life. The sky is a quilled sacred yard: Xâs, perfect bodies of planes. The crosses. The kisses. And yet, our tracks overlap no yestersays in the reel, spool to spool, Wherever to
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