of brevity
J.A. Tyler

It is less shiny without me here he says, and in his pockets the frost that was begins to melt, and his pants glowing wet.

Go ahead, pretend he screams, his lungs filled with anger and unsaid conversations and the pictures of her waiting for him in bed, her opened up hand a wink, a code, a gesture. Flowers as they bloom for one last instant.

This, before the air was made wetted and sick, before the words stopped making sense, before he grew camouflaged with the rest of the world.

The red wires untangled and then braided, he makes them into a rope and dangles it from her roof, down past her window, a single line of red in front of her openings.

Let down your hair he says, and everything is as it has been, unclear.

A baby's eyes, still and snow-fallen and no footsteps up its bank. A mountain. The obstacles in their way, the monuments.