But I should leave.
A., from last summer.
The day we went to the lake and ate white apples from the darkening trees.
First rain in what feels like years, V. brought these wounded poppies home.
I have witnessed starbursts in your coal black eyes
places where it's tremendously easy to run into yourself, a page from M.'s diary
figuratively bottomless box, I don't (want to) believe in singular exits.