Poetry is a presentiment of the truth.
I’m moved by everything broken and crippled. Since that’s how we really are.
Even a painful longing is some form of presence.
I’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being.
There are things better left untouched by words.
Letters of the condemned. Last words scratched on a cell’s wall. To write like that.