you still stand as my center. the beginning was as brutal as it was supposed to be, and as beautiful, and to echo you now, some 60 years later: “where do we go from here?”
the ink smears on the page, mutilating meaning into something else, growing on its own into a monster or a savior, to stand before you just past new years midnight 1958, drunk and alone, it’s face turning, elusive and receding, and you reach–
bless our crossroads, angel, wherever you are.
and if you have seen me crawl, then bless me, too, for there’s only so much to hold onto as we run toward it–the it you defined, just by being.
may your words always be heard, through the roar of the present and scope of everything passed and awaiting, and may you have finally learned to love yourself, wherever you are.
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