valleys tender_square when his love makes a river of my tears, he’s not wearing away hills that have arisen out of conflict, the histrionics of crashing plates. rather, these lowlands rush to cradle his windsong, brushing through lush corridors grown verdant with life. these lowlands spread for seed, profuse with the fruits of longing, unripe red anjous like hearts for plucking, ripening through the softness of his touch. 220210 what's it to you? who go blather from