A Fortnight Or So If You're Counting

High enough to see the bottom. Low enough to imagine the whole of the sky. As the past must remember it. When we are old enough so that it doesn't matter how close it once was. The hot ends of cigarettes burning her lips. As she inhaled to extract the extra bits of cancer the fire had not put out.

The eye. In thwarted harmonies of skin. Peeling. Sunburns of kiss. Fingers. Loose gloves. Trying to know. Failing to feel. This dungeon of flesh. That holds us prisoner. Orphans dressing up the remains of mothers. In panty hose. And skinny dresses. Long stories to tell the briefest of lies. Like why I still imagine it could hurt after all these years of nothing. Why I think they could still remember what I can't. About people we never were. And demons we were too frugal to bribe.

For another chance at something we'd never have.