. . . flee . . . fly . . . flew . . . fled . . .
i did, she said. and when she could not speak for singing, and his eyes were dancing along with the curve of her hips, there was a
deep beneath the surface of the lake.
because there is something radioactive in that glimmer,
the way she fills his
spaces, interior, with the kind of june blues that only come
from misplaced affection.
she walks ahead, afraid to stray too close in case
he catches on.
to her adoration, that is.
someone might find out, and splinter the fragile
connection they've both come for miles to
i've traveled a long way alone,
she whispers to herself, attempting to justify the hesitation.
but he gives her glow; a piece of night-blooming jasmine that twines along the rusted iron gates on the inside of her head.
she makes him echo.
so there that is, he said.
what is? she slides her arms through the air, spinning oxygen together so that it resembles bits of broken clocks.
this jazz you're singing, he says.
and at once she remembers the melody he is humming.
his voice is falling, deeper into its smoky depths, those places behind his vocal cords that purr until they break, illuminated by their own intensity.
stop, she says. she's crying hard.
there is no room for forgetting anymore.
i swear, if this chariot we're riding ends rotting in the dust. if it dies bleached blinding bright white in the sun,
there will be nothing left of me but this.
who says it will? he asks.
who says it won't?
i promise there will be no forgetting, he says.
she tries to
. . . flee . . . fly . . . flow . . . flood . . .
into the looking glass, but out, his hands spread like oil
and her wings catch between their
she settles, determined to
remain past the morning.
things to remember:
are you wearing a shirt? i had a girlfriend who wore a shirt once...
amusing rotc stories
who do you
who do you who do you who do you
think you are?
ha ha ha
bless your soul...