Sometimes, we forget our words. Sometimes, we don’t remember how to mourn. Silence stands between us, a leviathan of unspoken grief. We linger in its shadow, waiting for the delicate whisper of rain.
Tag: micro
Under the reaching pines
Before sunset, I light a fire. Word after word I feed into the flames. Words like stay, and more, and please. The air is full of them: embers striving to be stars. I feed your name into the fire as well, every syllable a promise. The trees thrust grasping fingers into the sky to draw … Continue reading Under the reaching pines
Don’t think twice
I promised to let you leave gracefully. You promised not to look back. One of us lied. Your footsteps kicked up dust in the yard. I followed you out, my fingers catching at your sleeve. I will leave the door open for you. I will leave the porch light on.
Immortal
I was seventeen the first time I died. It was gentle, like the dying of a star. My heart stopped, you said, for fifteen minutes. I died a thousand times between then and now. I died again at nineteen and twenty-two and thirty-seven and a hundred and three; I died in war and in bed, … Continue reading Immortal
Astronomy
Some nights, you set up the telescope. Tonight, we lie on the blanket instead. “Cygnus. Cepheus. Cassiopeia.” Your arm follows the sweep of the sky, like a caress. Four inches from your hip and light years away, I hardly dare to breathe.
Christine Hanolsy 