A death by inches



She is planning for me a death by inches, this shadow-me, and each day I flit between engineering her own, and entertaining the idea of just letting it happen. We are all too aware that there is no road on which the two of us, in traveling together, can join and become whole. Our roots will either choke for lack of space, or one will wither and the other flourish.

So we sit and plot, and smile stiffly at each other, frozen by fear of motion.

But on the other hand, Miranda, my skin is smooth and smells faintly of citrus and bergamot and white tea leaves — after all, if nothing else, we can live for these small pleasures.

  • Yay! Let us know how you like it.

  • Miranda

    Oh you've sold me. I am going the heck up to 74th Street right after work.

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