266 2 2
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my hand is closing;grasping insubstantialair particles thatescape into my fleshypink lungs. imaginary magpies take flight fromthe runways of my whorled greymind. their wingbeats soundlike dust at the morning's end;like finality…
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133121
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It wasn't that I couldn’t imagine it. Rather, I could almost conjure the choreography to mind. One of his hands would graze at the side of my face. One finger would extend and stroke me, from my temples to my chin. He would press my body against something
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139764
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But who am I kidding. We aren’t in love. Being in love is for high schoolers or middle aged divorcees exploring their sexuality. Our love is real, sweaty, backwards, forwards, angry, trusting. We love as you only can after seeing someone at their best and
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100
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I’ll learn how to make balloon animals
and pop each one,
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123166
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He begins talking about string theory. He reels me back in, from the dinosaurs to the infinite, human evolution and alternate dimensions, until it makes so little sense that everything makes sense.
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66821
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And then, one fateful day, the world ran out of ideas. The last one was gone, floating away like a balloon full of the helium we had already squandered.
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