The belly dancer waved a gauzy strip of blue fabric in front of her face. She flung it towards their table, but it landed feebly a few feet away. Donny lunged forward and grabbed it, then slid back into his seat, glowing. Mary Ellen reached across the tab

She allowed him to wash her hair. Touching it in a wet state, running his hands through it in a soapy state, wringing the water out when he was finished—he was ecstatic.

I contemplate the words that did not make it; the lost ones. The words deprived of their moment in the sun. These words. These words that are not part of the story.

my crotch-heavy press of 'Yes.'

beauty and love at first sight and this seemingly endless desire washes and cleans my soul and makes me feel weak

Desire trumps wisdom.

. . . when distance loses memory in plain sight . . .

I almost kept him on the shelf with all the trophies.