existence becomes
a soft lens
a distant campfire
a weak cup of tea
no less real when we are
chest to spine
always simple
always being
always needing more words for
correct
right
mint
flawless
fitting
true
perfect
an endless launch
into shared egotism
how long it’s been. haven’t been counting days haven’t counted backwards on the calendar. haven’t bothered to reread my own words. haven’t been missing you
your blue eyes and crooked lippy smile which i inherited that tiny soft bristle brush for your basically bald head the white corvette a campfire cards
what did falling in love feel like to you actual falling a new winter sweater a blood flutter did you question its science or were you
sometimes the wind the waves muffle and drown my memories sometimes the wind the waves magnify and amplify the sound of your voice and clearing
this is a silent film flickering catching starting over emptiness surrounding such a blinding contrast ahead of us shared stories captured images disconnected nonsensical we
It isn’t easy being a twin. Others considered us as one two-part person, while our parents saw, in our conspiring, four or more.
