Unwittling daisies dried in rope chains as if it wasn’t a promise to the incredulous. I had to get rid of it and flushed with every wish did it go. Why think about it now and why did it have to go after so many days away? I had written a book and there was so many ways to want to get rid of it. Taught me of its value and why it sits on my shelf, protected. Already wrapped for zealous finish, I wonder when it could come out. Not under this name but under this house, it’s all I got.
petrichor - archive 