Our section editors chose some of their favorite published submissions from past issues to feature on our blog. This piece is from Issue 41, selected by Anna Brunner, our current Prose Editor.
I remember that night as though it happened yesterday.
White clouds of almost as I pointed up above, at the constellation next to yours. You gave a smile, and I froze, to keep it tucked away, quiet in my pocket. It’s been two years now and I can’t help but look for you there.
Your thighs pressed against my toes, warming them as though they were made to do so, you drooped your head low to look me in the eyes. Caramel dripped like honey into my wounds, onto the pavement, and into the cracks.
You whispered my name into tangled sheets as you held on to me, nose pressed into my side, just to be sure I wouldn’t vanish like the ones before. I wish you hadn’t forgotten what you told me in the dark.
Grape-stained finger tips, a crown on your head, you faltered.
Shifty eyes, you met mine. Oh Dionysus, you taste like peach!
(It didn’t matter that you tasted like peach)
Soft and cruel and all at once, you wore Death like your favorite suit.
(It didn’t matter that you held your breath)
Rose-colored shades, an indent on the bridge of my nose, I held you.
Steady eyes, I met yours. Oh Ariadne, you taste like wine!
(It didn’t matter that I tasted like wine)
Rough and kind and all at once, I waited for you.
(It didn’t matter that you never came)
It was temporary, I knew it was, but the shallow breaths and muddy footsteps you left behind
still manage to keep me up. Instead I dance in glistening nightgowns the Universe gave me, all the while rolling my tongue around, over and over, trying to remember the melody of that one song. That one song you played for me that night, and the night before, and the night before, that one night you said nothing but my name, over and over. But I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t.
I scratched for it in the dark but all the memories of you sat tightly sealed and fully clothed, gold and weighty on my throat. Except for that one flower, the one you picked for me that night. It sits now sliced between pages, etched words I forgot I wrote, a relic of the life we once had, wilted.
I should’ve known water wasn’t enough to keep it.
(I can’t help but think alcohol might have been)
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