Lessons From the Kissing Booth

Late nights and early mornings I am distracted by the weight of my skull, trying to fit my thumbs under the edge of it, to lift and give the stack of polaroids inside some breathing room. If I ever donate my brain to science, you will be able to recognize it by the twin thumbprints on either side of the nape of my neck.

There are bats that have learned to snatch spiders right from the center of their webs without getting stuck on the sticky fibers, leaving behind only tattered threads of silk.

In a drizzle, while the rest of the neighborhood was sleeping, I gathered most of your remnants and put them in a box. Down at the dock I sat them next to me and told them everything I never managed to say, and then I sent them gently in the water. I think that's where they belong.
Some of them, but not all. Some things I kept, hidden. When I am better again, I will want to remember what was best.