decembering
December has a sleekness.
It reveals by way of pressure applied precisely and all over, at once, and a natural constriction of which there is but one kind: the kind you are powerless to stop.
The only thing you can hide in December is your original fear of exposure—
like a saving grace, a secret child, for whom if you’re lucky you’ll find a soul to share in its care and tell no one.
Love songs take on new meaning from the force of distance and vice versa.
They are powdered, anonymity. They blanket the entirety of one’s past and make the present look made up.
A sleekness.
December.
When artifice is a made over as mandate by nature herself in a bold display of girlish ferocity.
The masculine melts into states it cannot tame within itself.
I am, as they say, here for it.
I know the way through.
By heart—
as if a piece of me invented the scent of the season.
It smells like something you won’t remember but can’t forget.
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We cannot take combination without speaking of splitting.
I see that you are wrestling with an and that plagues you.
I see a book on the table going blank from lack of attention.
I am sorry you are in pain but I have heard that one before and
so have you. It only hurts because it’s old and it’s true
If you want to learn the context for new pain, like a sky
that follows you and only you, you have to take both paths
(haven’t you heard) the one more travelled has been cancelled
and replaced by a spin-off of the one less travelled and loosely
based off a show that was just greenlit called the end of the world.
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