thread

I learned early that the secret is always turn left, every chance you get, and you’ll solve the labyrinth. There’s a minotaur, of course, but he’s mostly starved for texture, wants to pet your unraveled yarn more than rend your flesh. And that makes perfect sense. Fear is practically built into these walls, but softness? The unfurling infinite? People better than you would plumb depths more mystical than these in search of something to sigh for them, breathe and better yet, to give. These lungs are halls, these lungs are singing, and you and I are lodged along their twisting persistence. Beloved exhalation, I cannot tell whether I love you more for your solutions or your maze.