They took a toll on me,
not in the way
that hurricanes hit,
but in the way earth was born.
My words became scattered and cold,
but I still utter them in stillness and with love.
I do not complain
but the black-pitched mornings
and sleepless dawns,
the wistful dreams
and the forgotten.
My silent self
and the other.
Those falling parts of me
ceaselessly descend deep into my core,
not deep enough to vanish
but deep enough to remake me.
An infinite chain of autumns
that keeps killing me
and yet keeps me alive.
