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(looking for) the heartbreaker

It has been more than two months sitting at the little white table in the living room, writing. Pushing out pages, fixing these pages, living with these pages then waking up and chewing them apart again, then adding on a new section. It is a mill, grinding the raw ideas down to a fine powder that may somehow rise and become bread. Or it may not. So many thoughts begin with "what if". What if they get stuck in an old elevator? What if she is not home when they come the first time? What if she is coming back from the market and passes them on the stairs? What if the driver is older? Or younger? What if his brother shows up instead? The questions are greater than the results on the page, the dialogue is whittled down to nubs of something recognizable.

There are cold cups of coffee, emails that go unanswered. The light comes and goes, and most of the work is done in the dark in more ways than one. Cooking dinner helps. Playing some guitar helps. If you are not careful you forge…

with her

I am with her, long after the baby has gone to sleep. There is just the sound of the wind knocking branches against each other and that magnificent smell at the back of her neck. The bright skin of her shoulder glows in the darkness. This is all I really need. The rest falls away, evaporating into the dark sky beyond the windows.

There is the sound of her breath, maybe even her heartbeat or it could be mine. I cannot tell.


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