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October 27, 2024

everything else: diptych

dear internet,

i. in which i am not
the rain comes down and the smoke moves crossways against it. in the wind the white curtains sway gently: a butterfly’s closing wings, the flutter of an eyelash. moss grows thick and bright on a fallen log and a robin hops across a stream. fresh coriander in a vase, drooping. a spider traps a dragonfly by holding onto the cobweb string and pulling. a leaf floats upwards. three men are standing by the harbour, their lurching postures and loud voices suggesting drunkenness, and their bluetooth speaker is playing holocene by bon iver, and to the right of them, over the water, the sun sets quietly behind a single cloud.

ii. in which i am
lying in bed with a warm towel over my face. lying in bed listening to the thrush’s dawn song, wondering if i should get up to take a photo, or get up to close a window. adding gochujang to vegan cream to puréed tomato to butterbeans. bracing a leg on the radiator, careful, so that i can twist outside of my window to watch the cranes. anxious about the clocks turning, which every year makes me feel like i am being wrenched out of time. on the phone with my grandmother. by the water, talking about art, the ducks in their neat little lines, the rowers sculling sleek and sure, and on my right the sun setting, quietly, behind a cloud.

love,
t

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