tatsuo
raze
words
grow
like
weeds
in
the
wild
.
you've
pruned
yours
from
the
crenulated
path
,
leaving
every
conversation
you
were
once
a
part
of
to
collapse
without
your
voice
to
fill
it
.
i
am
the
last
living
thing
left
that
remembers
you
.
the
only
one
who
knows
where
to
look
to
see
the
marks
you
made
, however faint
they
might
be
.
this
is
the
loneliness
of
being
resolute
:
you
become
a
living
archive
of
all
that's
moved
through
and
around
you
, clutching
at
shadows
as
if
they
might
shed
their
shape
and
bend
a
lie
of
the
light
into
a
brittle
truth
now
buried
beyond
your
reach
.
there
is
a
deeper
dirt
you
cannot
get
to
.
not
that
you
won't
die
trying
.
250807
what's it to you?
who
go
blather
from