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valvthis isn’t today. not today, and not here.

(the sea is never that shade of turquoise here, and the cliffs aren’t white and up isn’t down and no strangers here call you love)

i am wearing the same outfit, though – the brown dress with the roses embroidered on the skirt, and the black coat with its slick lining and its three tiny buttons at the collar. i’ve added layers – two petticoats. woolen stockings. a thick knitted cardigan.

here the nights are still dark, and there’s a blood ring around the moon and the wind is a nuisance, not strong enough to lean into, not deafening and exhilarating on the edge of the land. snow again, thin but stubborn like a cough. my anemones and i are curled up tight, shivering. we’re waiting, again. where are you?

my oldest recurring dream: running faster and faster and faster until i think i can’t any more (breathing like when you can’t tell if a burn is cold or hot) and then suddenly i am flying (swimming through the air). effortless, as long as i don’t let myself doubt.

(first time i saw it, i thought they’d stolen it straight out of my mind)

there you are.