rote tender_square he’s constantly asking what could be wrong: “nothing. i’m tired.” meanwhile, i cry while bent in uttanasana, fat tears staining the purple mat; wiping snot with my sleeve. the wisest teachers argue that without sorrow one can’t know the fullness of joy. and so, i curse this wanderlust chi that flows away from here, dam it up with rocks. diminished by routines of pretending, routinely preoccupied with what comes after heartbreak, after separation, after i can’t bite my tongue anymore. 220406 what's it to you? who go blather from