310/ August 21, 2011 - Finally, this.

Dear A., we have run out of oranges. To us, they were the only fruit. I am sorry if it’s taking me too long to return your things. Rilke is no longer a loud little cub; he has grown to be a quiet gentleman as far as panthers could become. Scurro will flap his wings all the way to Fairview because he refuses to fit inside the box. Many things refuse to fit inside the box. For example, your childhood. The vastness of us is a blanket I have to fold a hundred times in half, and even then I will not be done. And yet I must try. Someday, somewhere, this blanket will keep us warm and wanting to stay alive.

Posted 9 months ago with 13 notes

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    Write An Ending / Three-Six-Five

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