Sublime

If she could stay in orbit for the rest of her life all would be well. It’s

I was a lamp’s light, weightless with heat and fire except for the darkened wick insisting on its presence in the flame’s center, insisting that there was still something being destroyed, still something that could feel pain as it burned down.

We all carry trace fossils within us – the marks that the dead and the missed leave behind. Handwriting on an envelope; the wear on a wooden step left by footfall; the memory of a familiar gesture by someone gone, repeated so often it has worn its own groove in both air and mind: these are trace fossils too. Sometimes, in fact, all that is left beh

I understand the gravity of a train from the empty space and afterbirth air I encounter when I run down to the platform twenty seconds too late. It is the same with all things of such weight – to know them best when you have just missed them.

brougham

lugubrious

she had a sane and practiced eye for the half-concealed disasters that constitute a life. A

She couldn’t lean her whole weight on any of this when she knew she would have to live on after it.