Fireworks

I love being with dysfunctional couples. Couples that aren't even couples because they know it wouldn't work, couldn't work, would never work, but they still keep coming back to each other like they're being pulled by magnets or some undiscovered gravity. 

I like to watch them walk around each other as if what they have is a dark secret shared only between the two of them. A passion so intense they can't show anyone else. Something blinding. 

They fight. They're mean, ruthless. Words that roll out of them like razor blades. I can see their mouths sore and wet. I can smell iron. 

I love their company. I love the fireworks.

The austerity. The arrogance. 

I love it's not us. 

The Novice

He began by breaking down pen spinning, telling me even the spaces in between fingers have names. I was more interested when I believed he was psychokinetic, but I kept listening to him explain the finger slot system because his tone was one I’d let guide me out of body.

He looked like a worn ghost story, one with the backbone to withstand generations just so I could hear its entirety. He described the Shadow and Inverse Shadow while my eyes trailed into the dusk of his sleeves. How many undiscovered caves are there due to a lack of decent roads?

He told me “Mostly everything is abbreviated and punctuated.” I felt like asking what he did with the time saved, but instead I pried

“Why?”

He quoted Carl Sagan and suddenly I was craving 
carameled apples. Arachibutyrophobia, I cringed. 
“You’re pretty when you make that face.” He admitted, 
his stain-glass irises never looking at the white
 pen that promenaded around his fingers.

2,629,743.83 seconds

Feeling brave.

So fucking brave.