Tuesday, September 05, 2006


Every September I get my heart broken. Now it is eighteen years, and as I remember all the things I want always to remember, I begin to realize all the things that are leaving me: the sound of her laugh, certain gestures, the geometric fit of our small bodies floating in a pool.

I lose my appetite. We call it fasting, but it makes the world go slower.

I remember her favorite food. A broiled chicken wing.

Of course. The part that wants to fly.


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