Am I left loving what my mother couldn’t? — writing on patchouli scented paper — words doused in sweet musky earth — unsent letters, all sweet and spicy
I laid the stems of letters across wet pages— but they did not take— failed to bloom— I tired of the scent— wished for the beautiful unadorned line— divorced from all paper scratchings. ———— Now—I only write with the clicking turned off— the rat-a-tat drives me mad— It’s not the noise— the stroke of effort— it’s hard— my vowels and consonants— must live in silence- echo in the mind— away from the tongue-- nothing must match what my ears can’t hear—
—These almost words —Is it in key? —Is it speaking? — It’s beyond my calendrical self — lingers with the scent of sandalwood — lacy and sparkling — It shone in her mind — Her song — Music—
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