She returned on wings of weal. Accidental orgasms of liquid gold spun from long threads of remembrance. She nudges this old and tattered book with a tiny toe, and asks for it to be coated in goddess-proof sealant.
My sabbatical was fruitful. My return feels strange and unreconciled. I'm not sure if this is the way it was supposed to be. But then, it had been a long time since I had harbored any expectations, either way.
8:41 p.m. - 2016-06-06
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