The succulence of feathers and rose-scented songs on a warm wind—I’ve a vague memory of them. What a strange thing, to feel warmth of the sun, after winter has burned me down so completely. 

I’ve not hungered or lived or tasted or died completely enough. My tenuous body seems to think it must suffer more and survive more, to linger more—it lingers more, like the silent moon in the black sky screams, so loud is its wisped agony. 

Wilderness is a blood type, thick & unrelenting. It’s sound has more echo, more whisper, more melody, more sorrow. It is not a mere beat—it has howls, murmurs, thuds, shrieks. 

Curtains, do they keep in or keep out, the light, in its fractions, dripping from the blue sky, the winter’s blues, finding their grips on me, until, breath, what strange breath, is this strangled? 

If I close my eyes, one slow moment, here in this afternoon light filtering through these curtains,  oh these dreams of feathers and rose-scented wind and wilderness and warmth, the long forgotten warmth…


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