Every sentence measured, we run short of words mourning bridges dearly built and then casually burned. Your return, at least, at last assured: the mill's steam whispered and you heard.
I try to take this in stride, that like you I'm tethered to a line. It seems I've beaten these brushes dry on a canvas of half-lies that only half-describes the brilliance of the light.
I'm ashamed of myself, the beast, afraid that the stage is a screen, that when the current runs dry there is nothing to see. So I make of myself a feast, and when the bones are picked clean there's as little left of you as there is of me.
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