There are two kinds of truth:
The kind you stitch to your
heart, and the kind you light
on fire and watch burn.
If I open your chest what
will I find? A thousand
embers buried behind small
talk and friendly margaritas?
The empty child-
like conversations and innocent
bar-flirtation. What crime, what
gentle
passivities, what white space to
stir
and demolish faith?
Somewhere there’s a place where
truth begins
to end and words become a
clutter
of symbols without meaning. Black
marks marring the pure sheet. The
white
rises, glowing, resurrected, but
your
eyes stick to the black, the roman
typeset, the hollow scratches born
and unborn.
And are you acutely aware of your
own
mortality? Your un-direction? Stale
breadcrumbs at your feet, the
shadows shrink away from
a childless womb—a phantom
heartbeat that repeats,
Empty,
Empty,
Empty.
The hills are white like
Hemingway's, your
secrets folded safe within their
skin.
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