Prose 2022

It dissolved, the unconditional moth wing near the candle. You closed your eyes. Resisted the relief that sleep might bring. Spoke of imaginary mistakes apart from reason.  All that held were facts of furniture and sotto light. Vast loneliness I had pretended away. You were someone else who did not know me. I blame myself also for failing to hold on. Chose between two impossible paths along the road.   No such thing as morning, undue haste, a butterfly in relief

I can't keep up with present tense. I hold two way conversations in one voice you cannot hear me. You asked that the orchids be subtracted from the only room.

She was unconsciously beautiful. Most people thought she was from Boston or possibly New York, but she hailed from a micro-village in the West. Her mind shimmered with elegant intelligence who considered herself no different from anybody else.  When cousins visited, her speech descended into common folk inflections. It is possible she could not tell how naturally she adapted to a past decidedly unlike her present tense. She had the capacity to sit and chat about pale things for hours, as she had grown up accommodating others' ways. Her beauty seemed out of place in that tiny burg she spoke about.  She declared her home town factual; friends went along with the story. She seemed able to keep up with or outpace the geniuses she met. And geniuses wanted other geniuses to know her. She was a scenic thinker's thinker. She trailed no one, and she did so colorfully.