on grace
{18} interwoven: as co-conspirators, they tell you, we’ll ensure that we all rise.
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small stories
conspiracy
You walk outside and find the air is writing stories. You’ve been feeling all day too large for the edges of your skin. That perhaps your heart is on the outside. That maybe if you lifted your arms to create a crescent moon, the ache you feel is just your ribs exploding into wings. You touch your side to gently see (could that well be?).
The trees have decided now’s the time to whisper you their secrets. They gather up your tenderness of nerves and form with them a pillow, lay it down, so you can rest your head.
You notice here the flowers have eyelashes, that they are slowly blinking. The curve of the grass forms question marks, the limbs of giant gums calligraphy on the paper of the sky.