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ISSN: 1941-4137 |
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Volume Four Issue Two |
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Remnants Because I thought you would love holding the sun, I wore that dress: slippery and liquid gold. Someone told me I looked like a Spice Girl, a senior prom compliment. I didn’t know then that I longed to wear the blue moon like a sarong, that I preferred bare feet to those Novocain stilettos. On the balcony, I imagine the stars are tired of telling fortunes in circles, I find Orion lying face down, kissing the horizon. We hang each other like starving constellations, make up myths to finish the story, this story, which is as over as anything can really be, a betrayal and a promise, a healed comet. |
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