If you stand right at the edge of the night sky, some place where one o’clock leaves to meet two, the breeze will carry your words up to the stars. And they’ll swallow your secrets until its time to hand them over to the truths in the sky- the ones that draw maps in the black.
They carve their answers into the backs of my hands, the grooves of the words running deep in my palms.
— Marlen Komar
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