Writing

lights flash / bodies bend / like the minds behind the bathroom stalls / polished tile instead of varnished gym floor / soles (souls) unfit for dancing attempt to replicate that short they stumbled upon last night / dial of pressure cranked to red

love, you say, 

is as tenderly golden as 

buttercups in may, 

as apollo's flaxen hair. 

and you wish for a lover.

fated together

as achilles was with

It had been

356 days,

8,544 hours,

512,640 minutes,

since March 11, 2025.

It had been

356 days of smiling,

and crying, and yelling,

and laughing, and fighting,

I want to make someone happy that destroyed my soul,

I want to make them feel,

they deserve to be happy,

and not think the entire world is against them,

because I'm not.

They broke me,

Holy shit, we did it 

89 days of 15-hour nights that we survived 

The many miles in many layers trudged through many inches of snow are behind us 

The weeping willow shimmers, the water droplets gleaming in her sunlit hair.

A dryad floats above her, in the air.

They unify, becoming one.

In Summer, the Willow cries with joy, enjoying the sun.