i haven’t written you in a while.

i guess i haven’t been sure what to say.

people say time is a construct; temporal lines converge, diverge, transmute, but never decay.

bodies collide; perceptions shift; distort; change.

sovereignty is a ruse

a betrayal

we co-create.

you are me; i am you.

I remember, and re-member,

and yet

resist:

i don’t want to learn this lesson this way.

but daemons whisper of

secrets bespoke

of dying limbs and the gifts of decay

and so i let you

fall apart

decompose

because matter and time are (not) the same

and a smoking mirror

is not

a saint.

i cross my fingers.

pray for rain

hope you grow.

such tender

tinder of the soul

these new bones

without yet a name.