A great loss. Rest gently Whitney.
Stars shiver
on the edge of elimination,
these nightwater histories
of ivory and architecture.
Cold bell, cold loops
of the counted blessings.
The ward's flowerbruised brightness,
the slow blossoms
of hurt.
Run To You
I Have Nothing
Where do broken hearts go
Didn't We Almost Have It All
And my favourite
Greatest Love Of All
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