And then it was gone gone gone. The rhythm pertaining to the love-lust sweat on his brow faltered as I rubbed my open eyes shut. Insecurity is my kryptonite. And so I reel in the stench of the night and convince myself that the worst way to be alone is during those moments when I am trapped in my head, sewing together remnants of tattered history and picture perfect memory.

I remember the day I found myself face to face with myself. The mirror in the bathroom had shattered so I emptied out the amoebas of my mind and let them sift through my already shaking fingers. I saw images of blue Volkswagens, jam on toast and rusted church keys but nothing to indicate my tentative personification of a woman named Kristina.

And so as I dusted the blue flakes off my nails, I was then softly reminded that while my materialistic tendencies seemed only tangible, my thoughtful contemplation of the times and who I was could be physically manifested in the jargon that these fingers might tap. The cracks in the mirror could be filled.

(Sent to Dax Tran-Caffee)