In August, the sky is pure
like writing freedom on a sheet...
There it is.
The perfect slightly-see-through...
It’s cold, twelve degrees below zero.
You’re remembering her face, how the sun...
To bring me food
and books, he goes...
You're such a
pampered star...
I imagine
a bird...
Beautiful.
I’m writing again, which translates...
all eyes were on
that sorceress wearing...
I still find comfort
in the way you run your fingers...
Think
of every cell in your body...
It feels light to you, doesn’t it?
The weight of this...
You broke your pen in half,
a year ago...