Ellipse

The record down the hall sounds like the static of space, drawn out and fading, as if a comet streaked by, leaving a trail of sound in its wake. This is not a party, but if it were we’d tune the radio to Pluto and dance the night away to the sound of its loneliness.

We’d pretend to be in love with ourselves as much as the sky, the abyss, and all the space that’s eaten by time. I’d print out that photo of us from last fall, holding hands on the bridge, arms raised above our heads, traffic whizzing by. We’d color our eyes green and write the dates wrong on the backs. We’d leave them on street corners and tape them to bathroom mirrors and wait for someone to find them and give them to little boys with dreams of becoming astronauts, or pilots, or men with dark glasses.

Afterward, I’d buy you a pink donut from the corner store, kiss the birthmark on your shoulder, and leave the car running. We’d be like Mars: red, and cold, and pretending. 

Love to write

VT

YWP Alumni Advisor

More by Love to write

  • Unbecoming

    The streets have teeth and we hold our fingers with enough space for the others and drink cider on a corner where the ceiling above us blinks blue-blue-blue onto her tonsil-pink dress and someday I hope I never have to see it in a suitca

  • Self-Portrait at 18

    I know it’s a bad title 
    but I’m carving these words 
    out of my compacted mind. 
    I’m trying to mix the mud of my thoughts 
    into something more coherent 
    than to do lists and quiet 
  • Authorized Entrance Only

    There is no twilight in the city. 
    Only time we collect in our mouths, 
    sun peeling color off the streets,
    rats skittering down sidewalks.

    The fire escape has been painted gold.
    It shimmers at night,