Well, that couldn’t be the worst thing stumbling up the stairs. Ready-gone. Lights like that in stairwells in hurried nights like winding nostalgia for keeping around my fingers. Allow me to speak freely under walls covered in your objective collection of time — ripping like paper, seems delicate. Her eyes as blue-green river water trapped in a glass box, and mine: slate-stone as my heart sinks like Virginia. Forward; I knew our unknowing never let happen, love, she speaks as clearly as her eye’s nostalgia. No, as nothing really slipping through and alway anyway what’s possible does not stay possible for very long unless there’s movement toward a collective remembrance of what it is that is reaching for myself and myself toward that which it is.
AMELIA F. LOVETT is informed by writers of the area of Amherst, MA.
A focus in love and loss, war and what is missing, and sensational personal data. A book thief with a measure of good grief and hope for the future. Amelia is a born resident of the Great South Bay.
lemon yellow press 