Contrails

My days are gently perforated by these apparitions, contrails on a cold, quiet morning, loops overhead while the severity of reality jolts me from my somnolence.

It is too soon for importance when you’re just a petal within the hurriedly painted backdrop of the rhythmic spaces of isolation. Droning settles in as silence makes its way deeper into the conjectures of his heart.

Then he says to me: Waking up to love is a certain kind of death.

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