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  • When sadness has nothing left to say
    it quietly retreats
    inside bones
    it’s existential crisis reverberating
    off rib cages and into organ cathedrals.
    It becomes a colour-gas-vapour-vibration
    and only every so often, now,
    makes it’s way out of eyes
    and into tears.

    When sadness has nothing to say
    it becomes a sound swallowed
    that finds relief in
    long drives and silent
    conversation with plants and planets.

    (clay shaped into a bowl,
    the song a gong makes
    when it no longer sings)

    It’s not that everyone isn’t sad,
    because they are or have been
    and it’s evident on the bus
    when no one knows what to do
    with their hands.

    But it’s the difference between
    a fresh wound and a scar
    the thin thread we call time
    has stitched the gap
    so the light can’t get in.

    But there’s still light in mine,
    which is maybe why I can still smile,
    and maybe I don’t want my wounds
    to close after all...

    As a child,
    whenever I would cut myself
    my mother would say:
    ‘Don’t put a bandaid on it,
    let it heal in the sun’.
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