She used to say there’s nothing else to do but love. With winter sweat evaporating. On days when we felt like raw, peeled fruit. Existing in spaces, quiet like borrowed cats. When the whole world seems like it’s burning and the clouds are moving too fast to form.
I wonder if she wears all her nights like this one. like a lullaby. a sweet wishing of lyrics, night breath and maybe rain. Perhaps knowing she’s dead allows her to move on while i know the weight of bodies. Trying each memory on as i go to sleep.
I just want to never stop loving like there’s nothing else to do. Because what else is there to do.