Making Do

This language is a contagion,
but you and I are of no mind
to infect each other.

And you know what they say,
about familiarity, love,
and what it breeds.

If it were January,
there would be snow,
and the clarity of cold.

Something has broken,
and I can’t help but worry
that somehow this is our fault —

choices of ease
that lead to
a skewing of time.

Now we carry no atlas,
and there’s no navigating
those strange intersections.

And it is January,
but we will have to make do
with the romancing of rain.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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