shalev smokler

There is a man on the corner of 87th and Amsterdam. I do not know him, and he does not know me. He wears a red T-shirt with red sweatpants. He wears a red coat with red shoes. He wears a red ski mask on his face.

Were you put here only to provide contrast?

Your gruesome body zooming in and out of my vision gives something to compare to the flower.

You, like sugar, I desire. 

You, like sugar crystals, shine in the light.  

You, like sugar, make me high. 

And you, like sugar, make me crash.  

As you reach the end of the hallway, you notice someone behind you. They have their hands full, and they appear to be in a good mood. They are six feet away, and there is no one following them.

There we stood, my brother and I, on the mighty cliffs of Stop & Shop, staring down upon our vast kingdom that was Route 7 and the subjects of the parking lot.

My name is silence. The silence of the doctor as he walked in. The silence as they understood he would not be born. The silence of the phone line as she learned she was not a grandmother. The silence of the ride home.