Georgie Roache
You cooked your eggs until their eyes froze yellow unblinking lights in the intersection of 13th and Halstead where we first thought of dying while lying on a four-way cross of streets that bled into the sky which stitched your finger back to bone with pointed constellations and rubber midnight. Your laugh made me afraid; of heights and driving and running water and brass keys and dark windows and eyes that breathe only color. No one came that night. The paper boat on the water of your mind sailed flat on still waters. How do paper boats stay afloat? How long until the water’s grasp is too much and they sink into the thing that once held them tenderly in support? I have never since seen your eyes so fixed on extended nothing as when the skies peeled pink into the morning like ripping the fabric of an umbrella down off its clenched metal hand. No one came that morning. But the morning did come.