I write this week for iO:

It’s been three years since you’ve been gone. That thought still derails my thoughts, decoupling them from their direction, remembering just how tentative everything really is. I wonder how much of this is just an illusion, a whisper thin mirror with a hairline waiting to shatter, showing us all what really is.

At times I feel like i have it in my grasp, things make sense. Words and voices glow, while others everything is as dislliusoning an empty cabinet that still reeks of vinegar.

I return to that texting thread, the one where you never answered, where I may as well been shouting into the ground. I don’t know if you ever even read my words, and yet I return to that thread still, still hoping you might hear me.

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