Like all stories of creators who bring life from the dead, his story began with a struggling butcher, who chased a gray cat, caught it, took off its studded collar, and slit its throat.
I don’t know what they are called, the spaces between seconds– but I think of you always in those intervals.
I don’t deserve this. I have forgiven myself. What I did to you was not so bad. It happens.
But there are forces that don’t let you turn back and undo things, because to do so would be to deny what is already in motion, to unwrite and erase passages, to shorten the arc of a story you don’t own.
One day I will forgive you; until then there are scabs everywhere that you have touched me.
Missing you is worse than Pittsburgh.
And although Margarita lived in a world that predated Technicolor, she always dreamed of the boy in rich pastels.
There would be no sequel to the sadness.