.
the ink of my current thought is
still wet but already disproven
by edges of clouds that
touch and grow thinner,
his thigh against mine,
meaning nothing,
just talking
.
posted by name of the rose at 10:37 a.m.
soak the edge
The inside of thought is where everything teems and stirs with a thousand cracks is where the water meets the shore like threads pulled taut that soak the edge
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