Angela Stubbs: Closing not Locking

Fall '12 TOC

 

You waved a degree well above her yard-stick, knowing how to connect dots sans yellow number two, as if you'd channeled her thoughts, problem-not-solving without thieving or scheming, where a bittersweet victory ensued. Contortionist acts are traded for the likes of equanimity. In the palm of your hand, you scrolled through pages of knotted undoing while make-me-safe waited on the other side of the door, dressed silly-putty svelte in hues of home for one last hurrah. A clock full of attachment ticked toward the final minutes of shared injuries as she quietly lead you back to task while you forked away from rhythm. Fingers crossed she made room in a heart because you tell yourself you don't need to know but you do until you don't. Accessorized with a bent halo, you walk in stilettoed step with her towards the real world where she let you go with a squeeze, a wet streak on your face between eyelash and breath where salt snuck in a cameo and sadness paved its way through cheekiness, where a door gently closed yet remained ajar.

 

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Not Enough Night
Not Enough Night
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