Thursday, March 11, 2021


My whole life I've felt I was doing something wrong. The unlivable world, the not knowing, the ability to fake it being the skill I wish I could let go of. You can be anyone you want, I know. But to be everyone you are -- the parting of leaves, the loosening of the grip, the pulsing gaze into the kitchen. A slip of hair is pulled behind the ear. The seagull is still there, sitting on the telephone pole behind my apartment. Back again because that's what it does. Back, because even if it was a different seagull, I wouldn't be able to notice. I have someone to turn to again. I'm still in no-time. It's still the same day. It's still march and the pink flowers are blooming. All along the boulevard.

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