A Sculpture of Dust

I’m made of words; those whispered softly in the sweating darkness and those screamed into the icy wind. They settle on my memory like dust, often disturbed by my nervous pacing up and down the tangled alleys of my thoughts.
Sometimes – it feels like I’m about to choke.

The Effectual Farewell

The last time I saw her, Gina was sitting in the kitchen among his silver pots and pans, with her elbows on the table and her small oval face in her hands. She had just packed her suitcase, and was contemplating the rhythmical swaying of the violets on the window sill. The world held its breath like a swimmer before head-diving into a black lake. I’m guessing that before she walked out of his kitchen, she left a poem in the keyhole of his library door.