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I have been tangled in the knots
that you tied for three months now.
this imperfection is, after all, merely human.
I am somewhat soothed by the clear,
lilac clinking of teacups on echoes of saucers.
anyhow, these are months;
three moons, three cycles, three floods.
floods of novels, sunlight, black tea—
nothing more, nothing less.
floods of air for me to breathe.
floods of confusion to stop me.
floods of intent to whip me along
on a current of destiny, only for it to thin
to a trickle and deposit me on a silty bank.
after all, it is only this—
Life. a word as small and insignificant
as a white sigh seen beneath
a wide unravelling sky.