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written in the tilt

Writer's picture: jane doejane doe

i heard once that the earth shifts over time—pulling what’s broken closer, folding distance like a tired map. maybe that’s why sometimes two gravestones lean together.

their stone shoulders heavy with the weight of waiting. or maybe it wasn’t the earth at all. maybe it was the ache of stillness, a love so old it forgot how to let go.


the ivy knows. it climbs their faces like an apology, soft and insistent, curling into every forgotten crack.

it whispers what the inscriptions don’t:

this was never about the names. 

the letters fade, but the leaning remains, proof that some things can’t be erased, not by time, not by moss, not by the indifferent sweep of rain.


if we were two gravestones, i would let the years bury me just to rise again against you. i would trade silence for stone and carve myself hollow, just to feel your weight press into mine.

i’d wear the ivy like lace,

let the wind chip away at my edges,

let the earth pull me crooked, so long as it brought me closer to you.


what’s eternity, anyway, without someone to lean into?


it’s not love, not quite.

it’s what comes after.

love is a flicker, a fire, a frantic thing.

this? this is a root beneath it, tangled and unyielding, holding steady long after the flames have gone out.


it’s gravity rewriting the rules.

it’s the earth silently, slowly, confessing:

i couldn’t bear to keep you apart.

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moth encircled by branches, a crescent moon and flower are above

©2022 by jane doe. 

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