fromThe Atlantic
15 hours agoForbearance
A little rice? A little soup? I'd rather die reading the early texts you sent about my breasts. I wouldn't take a picture- infidelity!- and so instead had conjured them with words, for which, with words, you gave me back a tongue we dragged across the skin of common thought. Such is our lot, our shared disease or gift. Like Bernini's angels propped somewhere in Rome




















