epilogue.

Everything came before it but pay closer attention to what arrives after. The moon has dressed its lips in red. A poet in the midwest will wind a cape around your back and remind you of your superpowers. There will be magic in this realism. You call Gabriel Garcia Marquez and tell him to send you some water. Notice the giant who washes ashore. Do not scrub the algae from whispered face. Instead, clean out the wax from exhausted ears and sing out your poems. On a Friday, you will feel your ribs collapse on a walk tangled by salt and hurricane. A car will crash against your knees but your body will feel grateful because in this moment it can feel. On a Saturday, a human will grab your wrist and rub bergamot into its creases. They will kiss you with open mouth and hide their history beneath your tongue. On a Sunday, your breath will remind you of oranges and winter. Did you know that honey can save lives. In the end, you choose soil over stone. There is a crave of lavender and southeast asian perfumery. “The shape of your shoulders and the flight of your hips and underneath your inhale you may find your peace.” Or a piece. Call all this an excerpt of what will soon be complete. Or call it a prologue because maybe all of this is just beginning.