Out of reach—from boney fingers, sockets wormy, deathbreath seeping through coffee-teeth; from zombies who want to smother dreams. I’m thankful you won’t allow them, protect me instead. I grasp at string, hold on—knuckles ashen, fingers red—leave everything for a ride with you. You desire to go higher, we soar over peaks and hollows, across the deep.
It doesn’t last.
You admit your balloons never held promises, that you never trusted me not to pop them; red, yellow, blue like your eyes. No longer am I weightless to your helium love. You tug at the ribbon around my fingers.
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You’re making sangria. We laugh down the wine-aisle. I tell you mine’s best—red wine and brandy. You say you’ll try it, someday, then look away. I confess to trying anything after two glasses, which is out of context but I want to get it out there. You raise an eyebrow at the possibilities.
We smile across scented melons, grapes that dangle, berries blushing, smooth nectarines.
I ask why you’re buying so much soda; I’m caffeine free. You say it’s something she needs for migraines. She throws up, you justify. That’s too bad, I offer false sympathy. She calls
» Continue reading Groceries by Amy Abig…