The friend I have known longest in my life has held true since my earliest childhood. I remember very little of my youth outside of her. We got into the most innocent of troubles together. I knew her like I knew my own heartbeat.
She had blankets, always – ones she pulled fuzz off of and rolled into little bits and reattached them to strings of new fuzz. There were eventually bare spots and spots of intense texture. There may have been only one blanket, but there may also have been dozens. I am uncertain.
She is beautiful. She is calm. She is quiet. She drinks coffee and watches. She reads and paints. She is my history, threadbare – while also being textured.
tonight, i sleep wrapped in comfort threadbare the boundary between skin and night, so thin take care not to further stress the weave ritualized pulling apart regretful reincorporation pick and felt landscaping valleys lined with pebbles i sleep beneath it all i sleep in ritual, and regret i sleep in thin, threadbare consciousness i sleep in historic nostalgia also thinning in time but, i do sleep maybe this is healing
Mudança 