Get up off the pavement, brush the dirt up off my psyche
A month is long enough. But what do you say to silence, to feelings without hard edges? How can anyone put words to anything? So here I am, atop a washing machine in an empty laundromat, your number on my fingers. It doesn't feel brave.
We are trying to make a year out of four days, a month out of 12 minutes. Both feel irresolute. But this is blood we're talking. The same in you, in me. And I love you. The rest will work itself out.