Fasciculus

In the night she curls up and sleeps on her side. One hand rests under the pillow, the other on top by her lips. Warm breath washes over the soft thin skin of her fingers. her brown eyes close slowly, lids heavy with the weight of the day. Her mind lingers on thoughts of him and carries that love to its dreams.

Amplitude

The swing of the pendulum, back, then forth. Amplitude. Breadth. Energy. Force. What are these things in relation to choice, indecision, emotion, aspirations? How do you stop what's been set in motion? How do you work to comprehend the laws of physics, the invisible strings that Nature tugs to create its little show? Maybe it's not about answers. Maybe we're just along for the ride, the slow steady swing of the pendulum.

Gurney

My resolve has been laid to rest, and my security and sanity with it. Dead on arrival, maybe even before that. Maybe from the moment our lips first touched, from the moment I thought of that number with that article in front of it, even though my concept of time has been worked and reworked and reworked again. The pretensions fall apart at the seams I so poorly stitched, and what's revealed, what lies beneath, is the soft underbelly I hide even from myself. What now, she asks me. What now?

Cosecant

Things get so complicated when you look at them from the wrong angle, the wrong direction. You think you're headed east when really you never left at all. You think you're so big and strong, because the giants in your life always told you so, but now you're out in the ocean and the water's above your head. Now change your perspective, open up your mind. Maybe instead of swimming up, you should dive instead. You could explore the depths, the nooks, the crannies. Who knows what treasure you might find.

Fastidious and percolate

There's a mystery lingering in the air, but I won't ask him for the story. This isn't my curtain to draw back, this isn't my play to direct. So I'll let them lie, let them hide behind that screen. For now, they could probably use the rest. Goodness only knows what's in store for them when the flock returns. Birds of a feather stick together, and maybe that's why we've all been shifting slowly apart, quaking like tectonic plates.

Gormandize

She feeds off the tones and timbres she knows so well. They fill her to greater satisfaction than all the delicacies she treats herself to, all the tangible distractions that cannot satisfy her elusive hunger. She grasps the phone like a starving man would a fork, just before lunging across the table for thirds. But this table is an ocean, and this is not the meal. Just a snack, a taste to tide her over. The feast will come in time, but never soon enough.

Prestige

Can the stem sing the praises of the petals that make the flower shine as a thing of beauty? Can the pupil give accolades to the iris, the colorful halo that encircles its dark center? Can the muddy riverbanks show somehow their appreciation for the cool strong waters that give them shape, give them life, help make them what they are? Pride and appreciation radiate from all these quiet things. They exist without words, but not without feeling. Sometimes I am a quiet thing too.

Knockabout

Emptiness in my stomach, rumbling like the sea. A little dinghy knocked around, crumbling like me. We map out voyages by candlelight, because the blinding darkness swells. We sing each other stories to give notice of where we are. I want to feel your fingers stroke me, guide me home. I want to feel you fill me, make me whole once more.

Inept and machicolate

I know that I am small but strong, but do I sometimes ask for a bigger weight than I care to bear? I'm beginning to think that the answer is yes, and that my fortress isn't meant to stand up against such a beating. There's no time like today for making changes, but sometimes I forget to remember to start.

Plein air and hypnosis

My heart breaks under the pressure of a stranger's fatal habit. The smoky café signals to me a harder end. But the waiter's blurry language makes me smile despite myself, and I struggle to comprehend the insignificance of last night's dream. This is Ávila, with its walls that once kept people out but now serve as the main attraction. This is the place where the church bells toll at the boy market for fifteen minutes straight. This is the place where I look out over the land and think of nothing. This is the place where I lie at night and decide that if I could go home to you right now, I would.

Voluminous

My mind is like a river overflowing its banks. The future is the stormcloud overhead. The road before me is long and wide, and I fear getting lost in its expanse. But the sun shines bright, a star to follow, and I am secure in the warmth of a smile.

Hoary

When she closes her eyes, she sees his face. It is just as young and fresh and handsome as the day she realized she loved him. Though they both have grown, apart and together, she does not think he has changed a bit. She still adores him, he still makes her smile, still makes her heart beat fast. And when she opens her eyes in the morning and sees him lying next to her, she reaches over and strokes his face, his hoary hair, and she thanks her lucky stars.

Epistaxis

Take one for the team and don't let nobody see. If you're quiet, they won't even notice. Because you scream, and they just look the other way. It's like you're not even breathing. Not even inhabiting the skin and bones and heart that stands in the path ahead of them. They don't want to go forward anyway. They're just watching each other out of the corners of their eyes.

Bellicose and yin

There are two parts to every soul: fire and water, or earth and wind. They are each other's enemies and best friends at the same time. They both battle and balance. They need not be extreme; a candle is as much a flame as a wildfire, a pond as much liquid as an ocean. A stone is as much the land as a mountain, a breeze as much the air as a tornado. Each need only seek out its counterpart to create harmony. Then all the world is right, at least for that one soul.

Chachka and gingerly

She smiled at the old woman's kindness. The little doll was ugly and strange, but the consideration of the gift sparkled like the sun on the ocean. "Thank you," she said with sincerity and a smile. "It's lovely."

Acerbate and smorgasboard

She sees a crumb, she picks it up. She seens another, picks it up. She's stooped over the floor, following this pathetic trail, and she can't even tell that she's not standing. She can't look up, so she thinks the sky is made of cement. She believes that ants are birds, and rugs are clouds, and she deserves better than that. But how do you make her stand? How do you make her see?

Hypertension

The little boy isn't real. She knows that, she knows this is just a dream. But the warmth of his skin and the light in his eyes make her want to believe. Can't she suspend reality for just a few hours? Can't this be her truth? What harm would be done? She just needs to alleviate the pain in her heart. Even if only for a night, she needs some relief. So she allows herself the lie to soothe her soul. Does that make her a fool?

Papeterie and guardant

You're looking at me in this way that makes me unsure whether or not you really see me. Your body's turned like you're ready to go, but your eyes are fixed on mine. I'd ask you what you want, but that's such a pointless question. A writer knows best the limits of language and words; these are things that cannot be expressed.

Sibilate and coalesce

The river slides past, hissing over rocks and turning corners, hidden by the night. A sinister mist creeps in and covers the narrow path. She waits for him in a grove at the end of the river, at the edge of the forest, but he cannot come to her. He cannot find his way to meet her. She may never know his true intentions, his true affections -- and what a shame -- unless he thinks to keep trying.