I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny, they are small, and the fountain is in France where you wrote me that last letter and I answered and never heard from you again.
→ Mar 2012 "It’s dark.
You exhale a fist of memory.
I love you like weathering wood
in a room of empty pianos.
When you return to something you love,
it’s already beyond repair.
You wear it broken."
— James L. White, from “Lying in Sadness” in The Salt Ecstasies (via proustitute)