20 days remain. there is no solemn way to drink this tea. i send letters with no notes. i uncover memories, i box them in. (my childhood prayer veil; worn reluctantly at least twice a day, from the ages of 5 to 19—now a faded, if beautiful and sacred artifact.) this is my spring in autumn. i walk outside in circles with the pavement in my bones, knowing there is no proper way to say goodbye to streets, stones, and currents. who will take over these spaces? which corners will remain untouched? there is no torch burning, and nothing to commit to memory that hasn’t yet left its mark.
there was a short albeit essential respite in the capital city with esperanza. we stayed up for as long as our body would let us, biting on silver apples and bowing to starry skies. if i could fuse all of our nights, there would be a glorious diamond. all eyes upon eyes. all days long, all days short. time split in several different tracks. i captured in black in white, swiftly, for all the quiet turmoil, for all the brewing, for all the air growing colder—the air i cannot breathe.
j’ai la peau de l’automne,
l’épiderme cyclique des saisons,
l’humeur des nuages rôdeurs
et le regard qui ne fuit pas.