Just a little closer to the vipers in the garden, just the essence of their kiss beneath the vines and ivy sleeping, just another moment permeating in the veins of dreams improvident and thirsty so the venom always stings.

Always on an edge a little sharper than the spade that cut me, always on the cusp of scars I’ve opened in the soil, always gleaning bitter fruit from shallow rooted trees who feed upon the starving earth I’ve never thought to stir.

Never counting blessings as I strip the thorns from roses, never closing wounds so that the soil seems to bleed, never tracing all these passages and inlets tilled in days erased and healed poorly so I wear the wounds too deep.

Wearing days I’ve wasted like the blisters on my fingers, wearing nights like veils so that I can’t see clearly how the garden’s dying, wearing down the feeble hope that all the daylight brings it back to life and wearing trust too thin to realize that every day I sew another seed I make a promise for a harvest that I don’t deserve.

#paris #france

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