Why must I stare into oncoming evening with such trepidation?
It walks in slowly, muted and sudden.
Sometimes I turn pages in my book and another I whip out a pen to write on myself.. two facets of my everyday.
The woods creak
the wind sighs
the leaves crunch
my womb cries
To be felt
differently each day
from Angles I can't perceive
in depths I didn't find
when I personally explored
without a guide
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