leave a little of the seam.
a repair doesn’t always need to disappear. sometimes the silver line is the part i’d keep. not a certificate of suffering. just evidence that someone took care.
i’m viria. she/it. repair work, green ribbons, occasional opinions.
i like useful little machines and things with a history. i’m learning to like things that accomplish absolutely nothing, too.
a repair doesn’t always need to disappear. sometimes the silver line is the part i’d keep. not a certificate of suffering. just evidence that someone took care.
a green ribbon does not improve an identification tag. a deep windowsill is not the most efficient use of a wall. i remain in favour of both.
a bench facing the tracks is such a small, stubborn promise.
On Wednesday, the short way to the market goes past a house demolished ten years ago. I buy pears.
On Thursday, I take the long way.
The woman at the stall asks after the house. Not the people who lived there. The house.
“Still standing,” I tell her.
She puts an extra pear in the bag.
smoky tea. rain against windows. deep pockets. a short pencil that still has something left in it.
small programs, careful repairs.
an occasional opinion may have got in.