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If age and disability teach us anything, it is that investing in beauty will never set us free. Beauty has always been hurled as a weapon. It has always taken the form of an exclusive club; and supposed protection against violence, isolation and pain, but this is a myth. It is not true, even for those accepted in to the club.

The summer falls like a dagger and then a dress. Only a rustle, my life, the sound of leaves getting up at night to write.

Regret,                                like pity, changes nothing really, we say to ourselves and, less often, to each other, each time swimming a bit farther,                                     leaving the shore the way the water—in its own watered, of course, version of semaphore—keeps leaving the subject out, flashing Why should it matter now and Why,                                                           why shouldn’t it, as the waves beat harder, hard against us, until that’s how we like it, I’ll break your heart, break mine.