The skunk is dipping into a well. She's got me looking at ghosts of ghosts, picking up something and putting it back on like a bathrobe. It's almost august but this feels like late december, sitting in a chair by a fire. Paths laid out but never noticed. Mistakes I made, things I let go cold in every direction. Trying to thaw them now, save what I can, make peace with what I cannot.
I arm hurts a bit too much to sleep, but not too much to read. The skunk sees new something I was part of a long time ago. It wasn't long, really, but looking back it feels like forever.
