Housework is a marriage like any other, your mother told you once.
But most likely it was a combination of these events that explains what happened on the last Sunday of summer.
I wonder if each life has its own ration on love. I wonder if I’ll know when mine has run out, how I’ll know when the right time comes to spend it.
I wonder why her clothes look like the insides of my arms.
The people below us look small, but up close we know the size and weight of them.
There’s just no saving this.
“No one knows what’s going on in here.” He pointed to his chest or his head, I don’t remember.
One long night in December, Orion—yes that Orion—was my lover.
I started collecting secrets when I was six.
A lap full of pulled threads piled up looking like spiraling incense ash, something to read your fortune in.