What goes into a closing phrase

Written by Luke Carmichael Valmadrid
Art by Luke Carmichael Valmadrid


Your full gummy smile is an anti-ballad to the middling West Wind, full and feckless under flailing hail or solar flare, daring to dye my dying dreams in destiny colors, a better-than-golden ratio of silver linings that doesn’t need to know in what magic bronze believes to cast iron spells on cotton seams, binding who we want to be tightly and gently, so that our hopes entwine in time with room to grow, but like a snow that melts, then liquid-lilts into bloom, instead of languishing without a container’s shape; your arrivals are grapes that fairly share their fairytales far from the vine, morsels so sharply sour and scintillatingly sweet, and at their brightest when time feels the farthest, delight over water; I have learned that my ears bear the canals where your lilac laughs swim the loudest, not severed from their marine elegies, but connecting them, so I can finally say that I know what is yours, truly, that you’re, you are, truly, and that it’s finally appropriate for me to end my written communications with

yours truly,

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