Nothing exists but the stories we tell,
True or False, Stories have limits
as do facts
duration isn’t a fact
It’s given only to stories
I said I wouldn’t write. I said it to myself.
To you. To myself. To my pillow.
You teased words out of me, thoughts, desires,
promises that I never got to keep.
Until this one. This promise, alone, you keep.
Keeping us, me, incomplete.
I swore it to God, to you,
to myself, through tears.
which reminded me of you.
Limbs phantom across
severe d connections
the mind refuses to accept
I feel your
arms around me
mourning… I mix up
“sometimes you confuse yourself…”
“and try to create… fire”
when all you have are “ashes”
Dov @drnelk is a teacher in NYC whose courses often touch upon the interplay between destruction and and creativity, promise and incompleteness.
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