A Book For My Grandmother

i tried to read every last word

but the letters had oxidized over the course of my neglect and became brittle

they hardened and peeled off the page, so that when i opened the book to read they slid and crashed all across the page

i made every last effort to reassemble them

there were stains in vaguely identifiable shapes

but the closer i got to filling all the letters in, the more delicately i had to work to ensure that those for which i had already found homes did not fly off with an accidental touch of my finger

further, it seemed the letters had forgotten their identity, wandering all over the page once deposited

i attempted to draw on the letters instead 

to my surprise, the ostensibly simple act of embellishing the marks that the letters had left behind was impeded entirely by the bizarre reality that no pen could make a mark on the page

defeated, i returned to my prior tactic

but the letters, laden with betrayal beyond the amount one could expect them to carry in their little, brittle frames, were resolved to obstruct my every effort

at some point it grew dark and the light from my desk lamp was swallowed by the back of my head as i craned over the book to work

not to forfeit, i retrieved a flashlight

upon my return, i caught the very last of the letters, an H, on his final step off of the window sill

i rushed to the window and opened it the rest of the way to stick my head out

the letters floated, impossibly slow, towards the grass below
in front of my nose was the H i had seen jump from across the room
i picked it from the air between my thumb and forefinger
the weight of it was nearly imperceptible, and impossible to value until i felt it disappear as his every fiber was pulled apart in the gentle breeze as I held on loosely

turning back to my room, i was encouraged to find a solitary letter stuck to the page still
i hadn't noticed it earlier, but it was the only one among the lot that was still bound to the parchment
presently, it pressed itself into the air in an effort to free itself
i would never have noticed were it not for the subtle scratching noises the paper made on the page beneath it as the letter squirmed and gyrated
she was a V
and i knew what i had to do

to the side of the book i noticed a calligraphy pen with reddish brown stains
earlier, i must have tried with it to darken the letters, but i did not recognize it
even beyond the books preternatural stubbornness, it seemed unlikely that there was any chance for the pen to have had any effect, for the tip was dulled, and bent unnaturally to almost a right angle
i put very end of it below the edge of the V and she calmed immediately
whether it was out of fear or relief i still don't know
but when i sprung her from the page with the pen, she flew up into the air with impossible grace, and without so much a turn back towards the room, glided out of the window
and the last remnant of ginny i had vanished into the night

Arrogance

something so contrite as a heart like yours should not be left alone
but my mind is toxic
the consequence of our union is aggressively apparent

A Reader Poll, Overdue To The Extent That Its Relevance Has Been Lost

I wonder if it feels as if you are watching me unravel
I likely wouldn't argue with you
Maybe it seems as if I've inadvertently turned on some kind of Instagram filter
Like I'm feeding myself Night Vale podcasts in hopes of sounding edgy
But it's darker here

If you were to ask, I wouldn't be able to tell you the last time I couldn't see the black triangles in the corner of my eyes
Firstly, I imagine I'd be pretty taken aback that you knew
I've always wondered why they were there (obviously)
As if I was looking through the eyes of somebody else
Maybe I am

good sex

this is the first that my spell has fallen short
it was our timing, or it was me
nothing else
it seemed sour from the start, and i have never been a strong finisher
except, of course, in our own end game
but being seduced is different than being enchanted
when all else fails, all has failed
for there is nothing left to my cheap, jaded game but lust
that, which makes nothing but a temporary victor of me

it was our timing, or it was me
certainly, it was not you
you were a pawn, albeit an erroneous one
and I another, drunk by the hand of my own fortune
felling a queen
pinning my own

nothing else
the only world you were ever meant to exist in was a vacuum
like the one before you
she was naive
but you were too apathetic
you listened, and responded
you were the first not to be floored
you made me hope that you weren't listening

it seemed sour from the start, and i have never been a strong finisher
thus, my emptiest of end games

(Montana, If It Matters)

He told her he wanted to go to Montana. That was when she knew. It wasn't quite so simple, but certainly wasn't so complicated. He was a collector, a hoarder, a loser. It was a decade before she managed to get him to throw out his collection of postcards. They were 50 in number, and identical in style, all of the Empire State Building. He burned them, or, rather, let her throw them in the fire.