16.10.04 - 5:48 p.m.

youve never been to the house that he'll die
in. you don't know the length of my hair
or my husband's name, and i wouldn't know where
to send letters if our pact didn't forbid it.
what i suspect though, is that what i'm
searching for in strangers' answers and
old friends' advice is whatever you'd tell me
in half-finished sentences, your faces lit
by the old red and silver flashlight
we stole from his toolbox and kept under my bed.

the earth looks better from a star that's right above from where you are
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the project museum

the revolution will be catalogued

this american life

the library of congress

i used to believe







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