Broken.

[greenstorm]

I keep reading that poem, and I keep crying.

It's sunny out now, the cloud and the rain is gone. I could go out, there are people I could call, there are things I could do.

There's no one, though, who I can give this poem to and have them understand why it is I keep crying.

There's no one to whom I can give the poem and have it make them cry.

An act of worship:

When you don't respond, I know
you've used up all your words.

I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I.


I understand sometimes why we choose to worship a distant diety instead and above and beyond anything flesh and bone and blood. It's because flesh crumples when it's worshipped.