One year ago today was the last time I felt that there was such a thing as OK. That dreams could come true. That the Universe could get it right once in a lifetime. That Home exists. That the lips I kissed carried the ancient, missing piece of a conversation that I’d waited for 40 or a thousand years to have, that nobody else understands.
Since I’ve been in exile, without warning or reason, without you my soul is a refugee, without mooring, wandering as the wind howls in cruel jagged edges over the raw, bleeding cracks of loss and grief. And to understand that my displacement was simultaneous with your imprisonment by those jailors you can’t shake is of no comfort.
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