Saturday, August 8, 2009

when these days go

I've been thinking a lot about where we'll be and not so terribly much about where we are, and I've considered that perhaps this is the issue. All I want is listen to beautiful words, hear only truths, or at least honest fiction, is there a difference anymore? When I've fallen, it seems to have been those wonderfully wrought fictions that were to be clung to, to force my heart to heal. Through all things, I've looked for hands. Hands to hold, hands for their grasp, if nothing else. The hands we hold are made up of so many more things than bones and skin and fingernails. They're words, papers, sunrises, buildings. They're our hope, mine certainly, and it can't be said that I haven't held on.

By the by, I miss you all the time.

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