I feel phototrophic. Sunlight warming me down to the soul, where bleach white bones hide beneath all that red. Hoodies work well against the midday sun worming its way into my eyes. I don’t suppose it worries you as much as you paint beside me in the shade. Boughs of a willow tree hanging overhead, trapping your song under the branches. Tangled roots and rainbow sap, a painter and a writer stuck in the same world, upon the edge of nowhere.
Beyond that fence is the suburbs – where hope goes to die, unoriginal but profound in my mind. Destiny brings us all to this graveyard. Though I was born here, I don’t know her excuse.


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