Writer, I was in love with your expressive hands. I’ve curled up and slept peacefully in the curves of your beautiful o’s and a’s. Soared freely in the space in-between your lines. Touched the wet ink that stained my soul. After you left, I tried to write my own stories instead of living yours. And still, as I wearily sit behind my desk after a long day of work, I can’t help but cut my fingers on the painfully sharp edges of your silent dashes.
When the speckled meteors came, you said they were God’s marbles, and that He had lost them. So we fled the city, running with the mob of hungry, barefooted students who had spray-painted the White House black. We went back to The Hague, my birthplace, sailing the canals, which had been poisoned with mercury. One night, as the crumbling walls of our house violently shook, I told you that the lights in Paris had gone out forever. You covered my lips with trembling fingers, and told me that you didn’t want to hear it. And as I held you close, I read the secret digits of pi in your spinning eyes and knew that the world we had lost would haunt us with undying glory.
a Jackson Pollock painting
The soil is deep where flowers grow away from the sun.