the story so far

I have heard when butterflies migrate, it is their children, several generations later, endowed with the great train of memories of those that came before, who died learned, added their own thread, weaving a continuous pattern, impossibly complex – each unaware of the destination, but keen on the route – an instinctual purpose passed down…

love, deferred; stone, dropped from a bridge at night. splash, heard ripples lost in the dark.

This night presses softly against the window, a silence like the slow breath of organs, sleeping in empty churches. The supple kiss of your fingertips plays gently in the dark by memory. What music to be taken into your arms, to rest my head like a needle on your breast, catching a melody like the…