What matters is

I am weary, she wrote, in an open letter in a purple sky. With coniferous pens and craggy ink. With a thick blue brush and creatures that bled the borders.

I am weary, she murmured, in chirrups and soft-bellied grunts. In staccato on a canopy of green and in grating shale.

I am weary and alone.

print

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *