(as I had known her until then)
was a red dress.
In a country song she kissed tequila on the mouth
and did not blink--
you were never the same but she
was never any different. Death as I had known her
was not cruel. She was impatient. She ate when she wanted.
All things must eat, and Death
was a thing that was hungry. I had not met Death
dressed like this. I had not met her with long fingers.
I had not met her on days when she decided to
stay. To make her
Use the last sentence of the closest book to you as the first sentence of a story. We finger empty notebooks and then feel dirty about it, their empty pages like vacuums for all the promises I breathed into your mouth. I'm going to write you down. "You didn't," says you-in-my-head, so sharp and hi-def in the clasp of your shoulder and your bicep but blurred and weary around the eyes I am already forgetting. "You didn't write anything." My fingers shiver into their goosebump j