Arrival
Some lives fall apart in the bar of an airport Chili’s. They do. Some lives outrun their endings, or love themselves into the earth like a glee-stricken worm. Grief-stricken is what I wanted to say. The arrivals gate always streaked with canned-air wafts of sadness: she is crouched like a lantern. Moths squint in his throat. We think we are dolls with halos but we are mud in such shining cellophane.
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