Lush house

I feel so many unfinished things, like a house that never got painted and never got doors, a house the wind blows through. A house full of loose leaves, half-thoughts and skin flakes, wild scars and holes in the siding. Gutters of anger and exasperation, trapped storms overflowing and running down the side of you. You have no inside, all of you is outside, all of you is rain, all moss, moss without a hat or a coat.

Life has no pauses and no backstage, things happen and happen and happen. Things echo and echo and echo, everything is dawning, nothing is staying. I feel like a game I’m playing with myself, a song or a hoarse chant by someone pretending to be something else, and the dawn is so pink now, so lush.

I don’t know what love is anymore, sometimes, when there’s so much of it everywhere but it’s formless, unflattering, with clashing colors. Always you love too much, not enough, at the wrong moment. Love barely covers it all, all your writhing moods, the recoils, the jitters, the ineloquent gestures, the stumbles. Love barely covers them all up but it tries, like a thin blanket over a cold body. But you can’t spend life under a blanket. Love follows you everywhere anyway. There’s so much of it although it’s formless, it’s splashing everywhere, it’s sweet and uncertain. It doesn’t know who you are: it doesn’t need to.

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