A glowing white house
tucked beneath the trees
& the too-quiet hallway
that leads to your door.
Home feels like this, I think—
sacred, without question.
As if we’ve always lived here.
As if we built this
together.
I do silly things now, like daydream
about the honeygreentea scent of your skin,
or buy plastic toys for your sweet, destructive cat,
& worry, a lot.
There is a softness here,
but it’s young and doesn’t know
what it wants to be yet.
It whispers, I am going as slowly as I can.
It’s never loved, but it’s learning.
by Sean Kilpatrick
fiction
... My friend, drumming his middle finger on the glass, was bred by far worse adversities. He tied fireworks to pets ...
by Tim Neil
poetry
... If you look to it for sympathy, it / looks back. / If you ask about grief, all it will / tell you is that grief is a grey gutter ...