Some fall in love.
I shatter.

I wrote a poem about it, and then threw it away, because that’s the last thing I need right now: More words dedicated to people who will never dedicate a single thing to me.

A conversation with Sandra is like swimming in a Pollock painting: words, expressions and hands flutter and mix, raw and brilliant. She makes speech purely physical. I lose the meaning of her sentences and throw myself into the storm of her lips.

She let out a laugh, and then she put her hand over her mouth, like she was angry at herself for forgetting her sadness.

You cut up a thing that’s alive and beautiful to find out how it’s alive and why it’s beautiful, and before you know it, it’s neither of those things, and you’re standing there with blood on your face and tears in your sight and only the terrible ache of guilt to show for it.

I bet if we dusted her heart for fingerprints, we’d only find yours.