city,
city 130 One parent is grief and one is touch. Years pass without a thunderstorm being put to sleep. A son moves into his body to bathe. He scratches his own arm and tries to look at his eyes. His thumbs hurt and we tell him a picture has just been snapped inside the closest museum of the suddenly sick. Because there is only a second time for everything, I thought you knew we were here. Touch is teaching hand the history of again. It's grief's turn to be grief.
Leave a Reply