cygnoir.net

cygnoir.net

the press

My weekend was simultaneously relaxing and depressing. The storm nodded its cheery little head at me and said, “O no. You’re not getting anything moved this weekend.” And so I did a bunch of nothing, and was sad and then glad about that. Glad and then sad.

Sandwiched between last life and the next, contact lenses worn out and blurred, like in my dream. I got off the train and you stayed on, and it ended up being the last time I saw you. Cars are slow to function in my dreams, and the windshields are always rain-pummeled. I’ll shift gears but the car won’t, and this time, I drove right on past.

I drove right on past.

Did we ever mean to go this way? It’s never as easy as a mistaken left turn. You’ll stay on the train, and I’ll remember.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.

∞