• The Staccato


    A blackbird whispered in a blue, sing-song
    voice — “it’s about time for you to rejoin
    the stars.” Dried leaves start to unfurl, knowing,
    seemingly hearing the but one-sided
    negotiation. No, it was more a
    howling sound than it was an innocent
    whistle. The rock has withered but its strength remains
    pronounced in humble silence; stock flowers
    have woken up to speak odes in mauve light.

    “Have a safe trip,” we sing. “You’re never forgot.”


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