by the time you read this, I will have rolled off the cliff and into the sea. when they speak of me, they will speak of a hill. they will speak of a river, thick and slow with its own gravity. they will not understand why the gentle, leveling slope was not enough. they won’t know that since the day I was born, I’ve never been able to capture my own moon.
a knock at the door —
these old bones that just won’t