homestead
there are fantasies in which i reside in rolling fields of golden light. where my hands are gentle and warmed by love. fantasies where my days are epilogues to beloved stories on weathered pages. fantasies where life is still. life is healed by quiet moments i steal whilst you work. life is found where my hands have been laid. i lay flowerbeds and fences to declare the earth is mine. burnt out candles, unopened mail, and books line our space. the faint desire to nurture tears me apart. yet through the art of a sunset i could never replicate, i see no desires left in my soul.