there is an affinity of grace before her.
(stitched in silk)
there is a passion within her.
(for something unrecognized)
there is a love for pencil and paper.
and the words that pass between them.

she writes:

all my secrets i give to only you… you can share in my cringe moments and breath in the rest. he’s drawn a map up the slope of my thigh… and though i wait for stars to explode and dust to settle; he continues to draw. but the ink soaks my skin and where we are going is lost. i had a memory of a time when i knew everything….

we had journeyed so far.
it can’t be much farther.

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