
Not an Ode to Spring
It’s the hangman’s song of an unwanted winter’s first dance playing out across the face of another pale overnight. Notes, heavy and hard, punch into my skull with predetermined regularity and there is much pleasure found in that particular pain. But then, she never really did like the music, so I can only guess that she will probably disapprove of all of this, too. Not that the unique disparity of our discontent properly justifies anything- I simply have no proper excuse for myself so I will responsibly carry my share of that blame. And given the turbulent nature of our histories so inconsistently intertwined, I honestly find genuine hilarity in that particular disconnect. But then, I have never been even moderately skilled at reaching out. So …
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