Some secrets bear occasional telling.
Others build jealously like storms, and when a day dawns wet and cups its moistness, all kinds of lesions are possible. In the white sky, a lesion of violet. I am so tired of speaking, of the gears and levers to adjust and pedals asking for my feet and hands. We are drawn to each other like sinners to cathedrals. Words come in many varieties of confession, but if you come too clean there is a danger of ending up empty.