The tea trees of your earth are

all over the floor.
Did you forget your mind this morning? Did you fall asleep
in the library with your
encyclopedia lover? Did he speak
well of me? If so, how so? What did he
say about me? about us and our
philosophies. I blame the moon
and the stars' shrubbery. They
melt on my skin and spill
on my lap, until I desire a burn
and a fire and an explanation
from my mother of why I am
even here.
Today. Tomorrow,
how are you? Do you
think of me the same
way flowers think of
sunlight and raindrops in
a drought? Sorrows sleep in your
memories because you let them.
I do too. And I despise that.
I wish it were easy to
draw like a circle.
The circle completes. It knots.
It ties and it butterflies and
it wallows in the willows
and it tortures your tongue.
You are a favor of impermanence
and you will kill to keep it
this way. This way. That
way you say. That is where
you turn the light on
and that's how you see yourself
in the morning.
I wish I could remember
what to say to you to
make you stop crying
about it, but your
tears are needed in
the garden and a
boat is rowing to get you
here to there in a
lightyear. Would you stay
if you could uncircle
the circle?
Hands over my head.
This is my favorite
way to be touched.

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