“strange shadows — the wind has hidden in us, lover, it has howled a home of our bones. standing alone but for my own breath, i cradle January close to my chest; he is a child, at times, no more than fright, no less than distant wilderness of clementines — i want to believe in light, in the coming of spring. i know that Death shall blossom with the lilac; the floods will come and wash away the pains of winter, and i shall find myself anew beneath the bark of poplar, moss-overgrown and lovelier for it — alas, these joys are never mine untainted. the months i’ve loved passed, and i am poorer for it.”
— a lament for the poet’s seasons
january 19th, 2019 / / lianna schreiber (via ragewrites)
