"She paints her fingernails & before they're dry, she starts chipping away at them. A "worn-in" look, she says. Her hands are worn in. When we look at her she makes sense to a degree, and then you get to her hands and you don't know what to do with them. No matter what she's saying, her hands echo so much louder her rawness. She does everything to keep them in the shadows: rolls her sleeves down, teases gypsies with her collection of jewelry and bracelets, and when she drives- she barely holds the wheel. You wouldn't even think she was driving, but sitting elegantly in a chair at a dishonest party- arm outstretched- just a bit- toward the receding horizon of hands she plans on shaking."
"Oh how I remember you. A drunken mess of appendages we waited so long to meet and could never untangle. And now we both know this is not the people we're supposed to be. We're in the wrong places, in the right place. Our hearts caught in a half-collapsed spiderweb, unable to beat for fear of wrecking this pure feeling. You walked in and I was on the moon; breathing became an extraordinary complication, drowning in white-knuckled, muted frustration that devastated me everywhere at once. We fashion easy smiles on easy faces, but our eyes are as big as the love crumbs we recycle the horrible and ordinary with. This is it. This is it. I know I'm late to embrace this rose-tinted brain wave, but don't shrug your shoulders of this- this- this- this- this is it. But it's never enough. With you we have the world I've always imagined. By the time I finish this thought, you're already gone. And oh if you knew what it meant to me."
"He waits, his wits the last thing he owns. Not wanting to become a schmear of society: the beaten pink gum on the concrete, sprinkled in filth and now it's pigment is the color of a dirty eraser."
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