Saturday, March 6, 2010


my mother bore a fickle little sent of cucumber and apricot. a small, incessant scent of form and frugality. this was the way it was. always and without warning. and though i wrote without hindrance or regret, still the numbering of forgetful thought made the madness stick with each passing dream. softly and violently, all at the same, like waves shifting upon forming beams of passing matter and distance. i loved her, like small, tiny pieces of me, never existing without the minute sense of her, though still, i loved her. always and always. no fading blackness could take that. never would there be a challenge that could raise up against our love.

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