you should be in my space.
an open letter to an incomplete soldier
I carry this photograph of you in one of my journals; the journal is sleek and black and decorated sparsely in Mandarin calligraphy with a fire-brick-colored ribbon dead in its center. You appear disconcerted and caught and as such, incomprehensively endearing.
The rise and fall of America.
Wrists scratched demurely beneath tables.
From the crown of the head down the length of our spaces.
time & machine