On what has been and could still be.
On coming and going, and biding your time in the in-betweens.
On the stories we tell ourselves in order to live, and the ones we don't.
On taking walks and hanging up curtains 10 months too late.
On familiar February's and the different shades of not knowing what happens next.
Starting to believe that there is more than one way to, and for, everything.
Here comes a feeling you thought you'd forgotten.
A testament to, and for, living far away from everything that feels like smooth-sailing.
On the colour green, and not telling the truth.
Parking lots, fields and fields of them. Undulating, waves on waves of rolling heat bouncing off all the barren, the lack of anything that is somehow everything. Sun-beats and torn nails. This town feels like I swallowed six long summers whole.
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