Some days life goes through me like a tomato slicer, my head tilts to the side and I die, slumped
in the corner like a pitted avocado, then my fragile god motions with his hand,
do it again, and of course, life will do it again, and of course, I will allow it. I am sinu-
soidal motion, waves returning to kiss the shore no matter how often they are sent
away, and I sit with a girl on the end of a pier, Ferris wheel like a silver dollar behind us, city gone dark and silent. She loses
her sandal, and I dive in choppy waters to find it. Fingers of wind toss her hair, a collection of calligraphy, and I use her finger to point
out a flock of birds ink-dotting the horizon where paint dribbles down the sky. We are real and true, and time slows with its infinite
brush, but no matter how many times the water kicks back, this painting is a portrait, with borders, there is nowhere to go but out to sea, rowing
until I am fog.
Hey, I’m Roman. I’m working on my debut novel, 20xx, a work in magical realism. I write on Substack.
I really enjoyed reading this piece. You are a great writer and thank you for sharing.
Lovely!