She is harvesting her edge again, a feeble shudder, arms slanting sideways through her balloon sleeves. I’ve forgotten to invent her, to mark up her magazines, to stare back into the vastness of her black pupils. Now there’s too much missing, too many parts I can’t remember. We have time. In the midst of her rustling legs that swirl across this room’s tarnished carpeting, I tell myself this. Time to blaze through the fields spitting sugarcane kisses like we dreamed. To be there—always there, just beyond our torn fences. Never here. With her breath escaping, I picture her legs as they were, running. Ill-prepared for these happenstance meetings, too melodious and honey-eyed, too spread like apricot jam to be held still.
