Dear Wigleaf,

Skies are roiling pink and I'm starving rooms with the absence of you and where is that nowhere that used to hollow out the eruptive hours of indecision and headlights gouging track marks of someone else's existence on the sullen lips of windows painted shut and migraines dulled by bathroom mirrors still curled around the breath of powdered speech where laced up urgency is as close as a woman's lipstick fat as the shaded tip of some storm all fear winded clothes batting the strain of faded simplicity driven by the groan of a goal burdened with the soporific fossil of unrecorded gray prowling wishes like quarters dazed in placid rivers crying for some kid to sweep under waves and grasp some shiny history manic as all the white tiles counted while sitting on a toilet spirals arithmetic dismissed and prophetic memories passed over waiting to be ripped off like the bill from a waiter's pad squeezed between two frightful human tragedies of starched silence uncovered and strewn from wreckage of need.

With deep love and admiration,  

Meg 2it

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Read MT's story.

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