A Memory
The jars I closed and can no longer open
Sitting in the bar, I drink like I love it.
I’m taller and fatter and looser, growing
shorter and thinner and tight.
She hands me a jar and asks
me to open it. Sometimes we screw things too tight, but sometimes they just come
that way. The barman cracks my next beer. Foam spills
out and I pluck a couple bills. I think of you and the jar and the jars I can’t open
cause I screwed
them too tight.
Hey, I’m Roman. I’m working on my debut novel, 20xx, a work in magical realism. I write on Substack.
“I think of you and the jar and the jars I can’t open
cause I screwed
them too tight.”
Fuck.
this is incredible writing