Death (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