It is a vine covering the page
\nas I write,
\nblack on the bleached surface
\nof the paper.
\nThe tendrils of the script
\nform a lattice of words.
\nIf I were the last one alive
\nthey would soon mean nothing.<\/p>\n
A decoration of strands,
\nblack webs,
\nscrolls and junctures,
\nand I would be gone,
\nleaving only these trails
\nof what I said.
\nWhy my heart broke.
\nHow I suddenly
\nfound myself alive.<\/p>\n
But the vine keeps reaching
\nas I write.
\nMy heart doesn\u2019t stop.
\nI am full of a forest.
\nPerhaps a flower will suddenly appear
\namong the branches.
\nA rose will open its golden center.
\nSomeone will water the ink
\nwith their kiss
\nand say,
\nI love him,
\nor,
\nI loved him.<\/p>\n
And the thread
\nreaching the edges of the page
\nwill dangle over the table,
\nand touch the earth
\nwhere everything began,
\nand will become
\nno less a mystery
\nthan all the roots
\nthat live in the soil,
\nready to bloom,
\nor return to absolute zero.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
It is a vine covering the page as I write, black on the bleached surface of the paper. The tendrils of the script form a…<\/p>\n