it is: silent save the fan
i am: grateful for solitude
i am writing more & remembering more & it feels like i am keeping it to myself, this something that is akin to a bruise or a pulled tooth: a loss of something loved, more shining in its absence, only reminds us of how privileged we are. yes, it is a privileged sadness. like the snake, we slough the old too rapidly to keep up with the new; it is a constant turnover of "hellos" and "goodbyes," and it forces me to keep up with how it all began. the first of first-ofs, tangled up in old loves, remembering not to regret instinct.
i am nostalgic for things i don't remember but for the feelings that remain, fondled and flipped through like pages whose pictures have faded.
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