Mar 01


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.