written to be spoken; sister at the end of two decades!
fluttering frames of sickly sweet memories of burnt toast and rooftops. the bending of memory to satisfy one's piece of mind is often more valuable to us than we give credit for. those closest, their offences sear more than a strangers' dropped shoulder. but sister, we forgive - though mayhaps i should speak only for myself in that often i feel like my limbs are twigs, my ideas mere satchels of foul smelling potpourri (well intented by unflinchingly pointless). until your wooden props and gardening tips make me feel powerful again; that we two will for always dance to forget burnt toast and long missed rooftops.
