crying into the soapy dishwashing water with the rain from the open window on my face. crying while listening to veronika dolina. crying on the cold and wet beach, under a sky of lead and a wind of ice. crying with my nose pressed against the third button from the top on marc's shirt. crying into my grand-father's handkerchief, inhaling for memory.
it's been almost a year. it feels like a wound that just won't heal. every time it might, i run into that which splits it right open again.
1 comment:
Wise words: 'gore ne beda...' (sorrow is not a misfortune). Feeling with you, Véro. hug, Sam
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