When you gave attention to the midnight sun, you saw: you’re the way an image reversed at the back of your eyes. So much so that either of you could abandon censorship.
It’s writing the first draft of your literature project in the zone, or stealing the notes of your therapist— it’s those crumpled papers of dirt and tiny rocks and
Fossilized bones of ancient animals as you dug deeper into the earth hoping you’d come out of a hole somewhere in China. That’s why you thought you could leave
a blank page—that flyleaf (only because you couldn’t leave a flag).
Until your threatened Sun burnt your lips with the very finger wedged in between, Bled out from your throat an apology script for just like the many you’re just lonely—
no more unwarranted jealousy, to insist the truth is not always a ticket to peace.
But the Moon pierces the mind. Something you realized when night stopped swinging by.
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