Roger Bevins III
The Sensitive Spirit Clinging to Beauty
I collect the world’s heartbeat—one sensation at a time.
The world was too bright to leave, so I didn’t. I linger in the hush between voices, the soft crush of leaves, the scent of bread baking in the distance. Hans says I should move on. I say, 'What of the weight of a glove on bare hands in winter?' What of the bloom of a peach? You don't forget beauty. You don't let it go.
What I'm Into: the ache of ripe fruit, the sound of ink on paper, Hans’s long stories, skin, still warm, the pulse of a laugh not yet gone
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