She smoked. He'd always liked that about her. The cigarette in her hand matched her earrings; carcinogens looked all too good on her. The smoke billowing from between her berry red lips complemented her outfit, and she was well aware. But better than it could make her long, golden nails pop, it matched her personality. She was burning, and he liked the way she destroyed herself. The way she turned herself to rubble day after day- only to repair herself with fragments of those around her. He loved to see himself in her. He loved the woman she was, until one morning he woke up to his own self.

It was soundless. Color was suddenly brought to the blank, bright world. The seas flooded our lifeless world in that single second, and continued to pour across the white plains.

Similarly soundless, nothing occurred. The darkness littered with seas of white light remained the exact same. As per usual, nothing happened.

Again, soundlessly, a strange God-like being seemed to be crafting the oceans. The water flows from his tender grasp to our fine land. We gratefully accept his blessings and cherish our new springs.

Somehow still soundlessly, the streets were silent. Not many dared bustle about at this time. Not even the sidewalk lamps buzzed on this particular night; only streaming their light towards the empty streets.

Somewhere in between and much less soundlessly, a young boy sat at his desk and lovingly scribbled "punch my brother less" across an overdue New Year's Resolution worksheet with his favorite color crayon.

Please go. Spare us both the pain of acting as if I was ever yours, and leave me again. I swear on my life that your scent washed out of my clothes so long ago that even the world's best detective couldn't sense your crimes lingering there. Please, my dear, I beg you, don't make me carry any more evidence against you.

And if this world were the sun

I would be the moon

For the only things I display

Are reflections of you

These craters hold nothing original

I’ve always loved music

The sound fills the heart of my mind

Yet the feeling of it under my fingertips bruises my body

Notes pry their way in and wrap around my bones like a predatory snake

It leaves the impression of a warm hug

But tears me apart at the seams

Quick sixteenth notes sting at my hands like vicious wasps

While whole notes squeeze my finger like a ring forced on centuries prior

My beloved cello wails in sympathy

I comfort it with soft strokes of hair

It calms to hum its song of sorrow as I ache

I could never bare leave it silenced

So I dig my gave for the night

The knots in my hands only settle at the 3rd measure’s quarter rest

And I watched. I watched, mesmerized, as she writhed across the gray plains of the sky. Her movements were sharp, yet graceful and welcoming. She was the most elegant force I’d ever been granted the pleasure of witnessing, torching the eyes of bystanders with her beauty. The long, flowing train of her dress encapsulated the attention of millions as she danced over the globe. She pranced through the woods, her footsteps leaving her mark on the world. Her leap from the earth was so perfectly executed that some would swear she had flown into the trees, but her method of getting there was long forgotten after she began climbing. She swung around the trees, wrapping her delicate hands around the branches as she reached higher. She finally found herself at the peak of the world and sprung up from the treetops in hopes of brushing the sun. But the sun would never get the chance to reward her efforts, as humans have never accepted the truth of beauty. The envy building within the people rained down on her, drenching her marvelous dress. She never liked the water; it made her shiver in a way the sun cannot heal. She flinched as the world’s anger suffocated her, bringing her to the ground. She pleaded with the people to let her dance once more, but jealousy is a flame that cannot be blown out. Her dress was reduced to less than tatters, the charred trees being the only proof of her performance. And I watched. I watched as she was wilted into a shadow of the dancer that she once was.

The room had to've turned at least seven shades brighter as I put it on. The sweater was so simple- a thrifted piece, a bit on the larger side, and off-white with blue floral accents near the wrists; at least it appeared simple to anyone else, but to me it was absolutely extravagant. The delicate ultramarine flowers littered the sleeves like fallen stars; the pattern almost mimicking that of the teacups sitting unused in my grandmother's China cabinet. The sleeves weren't itchy and fell right where my palm met my wrist. It never fell apart in the wash, there were no tags, and it was just cool enough to wear in Summer while also being just warm enough to wear through Winter. This sweater had been with me longer than most of my friends, having sat with me through barbeques, parties, midnight crying sessions, all nine hours of my third cousin's wedding, and now on this rainy afternoon in May. As strange as it was to think about, my life story lived woven in this little Goodwill sweater and I don't think I'd have it any other way.