how it began: the interim; the leftover meal.

prologue.

in the beginning there were words, so we began with words, and with words we were.
when the day came we didn't know. in place of words, an eternal waiting: from one to the other we threw a string, fishing for each other's missing parts: a hand to grasp on to, and two lips to speak. when favorite moments of the night ran blank like paper burning into smoke, a terror escaped. from the place between our ribs to the door of one of our nostrils, it tore at the air inside like a restless infant, and upon arrival was expelled by a long exhale.

...


our heads too heavy for our age say nothing for the fear but think without paying heed to the lights at the intersection which are forever green, even when yellow, even when red, even when our police car tails us with its sirens screeching: we run out from underneath the law of restraints we'd set in place and the smell of the sweets you had smelled are always delicious, because you'd never tasted. bones lost in the soft skin like any other soft skin, in any other bed, on a cloud of cigarette smoke wandering like chronic drifters in a crowded bar 

we wish we could be mature about this like our parents were, when they were still married.

one day we will, and we will hate our selves for betraying us.


...

epilogue.

some nights it rained; some nights it snowed. but the lines remained so still, frozen into winter. fingers grew cold. and the words never showed.

and so the fishermen gave up their posts, and returned home to remove their boots. that night they waited for their wives' voice to melt, warmed in memories that had been frozen for too long. there was nothing else on the dinner table.