What we fear may not come to pass. Though the wind this year has been violent, and the sky rainless, the tree we planted
What we fear may not come to pass. Though the wind this year has been violent, and the sky rainless, the tree we planted
You are made in a darkness that warms and rustles, and settles, folded under the dusk-sound of cicadas singing as softly as a woman
This is an end-of-the-world kind of love. You know, a grab-onto-something-because- the whole-place-is-coming-down sort of situation. When all of the volcanoes erupt at the
