I am a conglomerate of organs that exist in my time and within my truths-whatever those may be; I do not know.

The finch keeps me awake

I’m not the girl reading the book anymore

I see the wind moan outside my window

And I think to myself

I could make it silent if I wanted to

But I think I’ll breathe instead and wait for rain.

Rain that cleans the dirt and wets snails

That die within a hollow of the birch. 

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