Before the Ruins
He fears not having enough, collects tokens as we march onward, abandoning cities. I yearn for roots deep as my soul. We keep moving, gathering. When the wind blows he reaches: nothing. I am gone, stopped miles back to rest, reminding myself we can’t take any of this with us.
The comfort comes in the ways you may expect, unraveling fingers and mending them together with those of another, fingertips to soul, deep yearning for, what – connection? sharing? sex? A hide and seek, a game at play, a history being erased, rewritten.
There Is No Road From Here
Day drops, leaving silt on the streets. She hugs the dark road, window down, the orange tip of an already old habit between her fingers. Just a little longer, he asks. The boy hunched in the passenger seat, collar drawn around his lips. She drives on, will wait for him to say when.
Kari Nguyen has been, at different times in her life, a state free throw champion, a college valedictorian, and the most awkward girl in the eighth grade. The awkwardness continues.
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