perhaps in the marrow of one's bones

. . . and always the thought splitting in: Is this really my life? Is this the best I can do?

I remember life. There was so much. I held it all. I held it all.

“I. Our kiss is a secret handshake, a password. We love like spies, like bruised prize fighters, Like children building tree houses. Our love is serious business. One look from you and my spine reincarnates as kite string. When I hesitate to hold your hand, it is because to know is to be responsible for knowing. II. There is no clean way to enter the heavy machinery of the heart. Just jagged cutthroat questions. Just the glitter and blood production. III. The truth is this: My love for you is the only empire I will ever build. When it falls, as all empires do, my career in empire building will be over. I will retreat to an island. I will dabble in the vacation-hut industry. I will skulk about the private libraries and public parks. I will fold the clean clothes. I will wash the dishes. I will never again dream of having the whole world.”

A Good Story

“This is what I have. The dull hangover of waiting, the blush of my heart on the damp grass, the flower-faced moon.”

“We’ve seen what they have to offer. It’s great. It’s beautiful. And it is not nearly enough.”

“—here is a cool quiet morning again, a feeling of relief, respite, hope.”