Piece by Piece, Preservation Dan Roussel
I want to pin the corners of the moment carefully—thin wire pins, blushing red skulls at the tip of the wing, then the head, the tail, the other wing stretched across the foam board of my love. This is a dream worth hunting, a dream worthy of hanging its head on the walls of the empty villa, always mountainside. Always isolated. I want it pressed into a book. I want it preserved in frost without bite, preserved in fire without ash. I want to hide it in the lightless closet, laid out in the dark, undreaming. I want to pin it under consumer-grade glass, the kind to say
look over all that I’ve had, sometimes, I think look over all that I’ve had, sometimes, I think I only know how to love what has already died. Sometimes, I think I only learn to love when I’ve swallowed the key to the lock.
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