It snowed last night. The cold creeping, insipid in the dark, through the quilts and the tangled bones of memory reawakened. We gnawed on the marrow of old wounds. Shivering.
We don’t have quilts.
Or memories that we share.
Or enough silverware anymore.
In the cold and toxic dark, our words ripped through each other like angry animals desperate for sustenance.
I love you. Art matters.
Where the fuck did all the forks go?
I am thinking about minimalism. Stripped bare. Bones, invisible in the dark.
Letting go. Holding on.