At last, another Heaven. Pins and needles the size of skyscrapers, a yolky aftertaste, a bed spilled on granite. Vowels with their veils in disguise. Blue ribbons in my hair. Home.
Outside, Jillison whittles fingerholes into cork. He scripts static defense into star charts. Scratches bruises shaped like trapezoids. He spends his nights nailing frog legs to the leftover planks of wood. Anything else feels too much like starting over again.
He sheds and shivers and I balance him. He is nervous. I brace his circumference with warm temperatures. I brush poison sumac off this truth and that.
Syllables blink and I hide him. I know my words are like ticker tape. Thin. Flimsy. Tasteless. Jillison could rip them to their filaments and stomp them out. But now, he won’t even look at me.
That’s when maybe I knew the distance that exceptions make. You can travel your whole life just to remember the absence they left in your place.