growing up

everything is made of wood. your cheekbones, memories. the earth is a creaking globe in an antique study with books shelved against all four walls. each book, decaying pages, only the bones remaining, sturdy spines. i want to sit in silence and dance my fingers along the wood. drain out the ancient ache, relieve the bedsores of the mind with a simple human touch. sense each deep fissure and shallow sulcus in the leather skin. i want to be okay without words. i want to be content with the whispers of bones. the light being the only thing written, the only movement. i want to make peace with the silence hissing in my ear. i want to smile at empty rooms, alone, without wandering through fog to find where all voices dissolve. i want to smile, lift cheekbones to the light—to the silence—unleash my stifled imagination onto this hand carved world.


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