T

Trying to get a ride to the desert festival you don’t answer my Texts. These things don’t write themselves. ButThankfully I just learned to be aTwirling unbothered stranger to myself, aTraveling heart wrapped in crimson silk fluttering open in a breeze. At 7pm I’m Twilight’s citizen fashioningTraits for myself that have nothing to do withTrouble sorrow culpability—Twinkling tall and bird-eyed at night I’m Traipsing through Central Park, whose little waterfall speaks to me—Tantamount to a minor nymph, I sing water from the rock.