Happiness for all was lean in
the Year of Apart, of disease, of naked dislike between souls whose paths had
never even crossed. Safety and health (and
unmasked smiles) were mythological creatures everyone chased into forests
that whispered of dead trees and sadder things. Thoughts of you guided me
through the toughest fields… Once, when a guy called me a “liberal bitch”,
because I would not share the elevator, I did not waste spit telling him what I
thought of his covidiocy. I just woofed, growled, and grinned.
in darkness,
memories of you
become stars
for
The Sunday Muse #140 and Whirligig 298.
