Sometimes I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how to describe what I’m doing, the company I’m in. My surroundings don’t want to be encased in language. Roots exist, growth occurs; this isn’t passive living. I can’t always see what/who guides my steps. I know what a yes feels like in the quiet of my heart. I get lost in the anatomy of my tongue and never reach a point of articulation. I contemplate this sweetness: elm leaves take the brunt of frost, and bats can fill their bellies with insects for a while longer. Give me the joy of being a blade of grass. I want to line my heart with the essential minuscule of imperfect connection.
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