Let it get hot and just evaporate.
That sort of death could be remembered as gentle.
Where the sun hits is part of the game.
You want me to smile wide, with the blood that came early and sinking between the cracks.
And I agree. It's not your fault because I never liked sports.
This book is getting good. And now, in the darkness,
a ghost presses on my back and tells me to go home, because she knows.
Don't touch me with your whiskers.
I drank another wine. It had tiny bubbles like confetti. A motion and movement in time in a glass.
(No wonder we celebrate.)
A possible future:
I am looking at the moon too long: the world's most famous reflection.
Forgetting my reflection in a mirror that I can't seem to fasten to the wall.
(Is it the nail or the fact that I have to live with one angle of myself?)
Then I lie to the one I want about the moon going for this blood.
Because everyone told me never to wait. But I wish I had waited just one more song.
The ocean saunters and a seal is dead.
Its body brushes up against my leg. Iodine. Sausages frying.
My husband must be dead.
To look at the eclipse, use your phone. (But backwards, like you are looking at yourself.)
We haven't seen one like this in years.
A cup of stars now.
Let it fade and just die.
- Andrea Grassi