Tills the blood in and out of uterus. Wakes up smelling of zinc. Grief, sedated by orgasm. Orgasm heightened by grief. God was in the room when the man said to the woman, “I love you so much. Wrap your legs around me and pull me in, pull me in, pull me in.” Sometimes when he’d have her nipple in his mouth, she’d whisper, “Oh my God.” That, too, is a form of worship. Her hips grind pestle and mortar, cinnamon and cloves, whenever he pulls out.
Loss. Dear moon, we blame you for floods…for the flush of blood…for men who are also wolves. We blame you for the night, for the dark, for the ghosts.
I wish I could tell you more than I’m sorry, because I know how it feels to be I’m sorry clutching roses until they go brown. I looked at her the way you looked at me, with a love poem scratched inside my throat.
Your hands tremble in the wind. On the rooftop, we stand toe to toe, ten stories in the air. The words careen out of your mouth, down, down, and are swallowed by ambulance sirens. New York City sings at midnight, an anthem of gun shots and honking horns. “I am in love with you” hits the screech of a crashing car. You say it three times.
I wish I could kiss you, because I wish she had kissed me, and I wish I could hold your hands, because she left my fingers cold. Instead, I wait for your voice to trail off at the end of your letter, and then I pry the paper from your fists. My eyes flick over it without reading anything. Something in me needs to own these words, “I love you,” to prove that someone does. I fold your letter and put it in my back pocket - she put mine in her purse - and I nod.
“Is that it?” you ask. You cross your arms across your stomach and I remember the last time I kissed it, months ago. I don’t remember the date but you probably do. “Is that it?” you ask again, drowned by sirens.
I wish I could give you I’m sorry More than just a I’m sorry Because I know this is useless I’m sorry But all I have is a -
I’m sorry, I say. And I climb down from the roof. I don’t know how long it is before you walk back to your apartment. I press my ear to my bedroom window. Barking dogs. Someone singing. I wish I could give you more than your footsteps disappearing into the nightscape. I wish I could give you I love you too I’m sorry.
She’d continued to fly [the A-wing] for a couple of years after, mostly in civilian defense, and every so often she would take Poe up in it. He would sit on her lap inside the cramped cockpit, his hands on the stick and her hands on his, and he could feel the ship answering their control. […] Then they would break through the thin skin that protected the moon they called their home, and the Yavin gas giant would suddenly glow that much brighter against the darkness of space. All the push and pull of atmosphere and gravity would vanish, and it was as close to perfection as young Poe could imagine. […] That was when he knew that whatever else he would be, he would be a pilot.