“I had bared my heart and my feelings were seemingly reciprocated, sharing five years of itemised service invoices, lamenting night shifts, even travelling to the south side of the Bridge for me.”
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“I think of her sometimes, on nights like this, when my shirt is low and the wind kisses my chest as greedy eyes stare. They don’t know there is nothing there anymore. I ate her years ago, splitting the tough skin with my front teeth to reach the fruit inside. But tonight, here, with the moon hiding behind low, yellow clouds, Beautiful Girl walks with me.”
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“I reckon if I picked flowers the star power sucked from the ground like a naughty talisman — maybe the PH of the soil is altered by the amount of celebritydom decomposing, would my hydrangeas blush prudent pink?”
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“The answer is you and I, it always is. In that sea of dust, there was nothing. Quiet, not a wave, not a sound. In that flat endless world, a soft and gentle breeze started to blow.”
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As August appears every year, so does a discrete package at the footstep of my family home.
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