/lit/ - Literature

>>12142165
I remember sitting on the floor next to your bed, being held very still as the TV flickered primate shapes at us through the green-black screen. If I move, something will go wrong, get unplugged, and you won’t be able to show me. Then later an agent of masks and slate gray polish while I sat ashamed behind you struggling to remember somebody who you weren’t because I hope it might make things easier for one or both. In the loft next to the dog while a snake and a falcon fell off the stage. I’m sure you let it happen but I’ll pretend alongside you so we can say it’s all for fun. Pasta in a plastic container and a fork run circular through a couple shapes. I’m so grateful and I don’t know what to say. Another time on the kitchen floor crouching over a red spot, gripping hard the handle off the carving knife that made you cry with all my callousness. I’m so sorry.

I look over to you without thinking. You’re somewhere else but I think I still know the way. You’re long and thin and drawn all over, but I can still look in your eyes and see myself. You lift both your arms over your head to show me your collection of gossamer chains, gentle lacework binding you all together, so beautiful and trembling with flies.