trust.

Published October 18, 2012 by April Fox

I don’t know how we got here.

We drove in blind, in the dark, blindfold on my eyes and if I could have seen in front of me I would have turned and clawed my way back through the night-afraid of the light.

You led us here by instinct, perhaps, or echolocation, the sound of us bouncing off of everything around that stood to trip us up, or block the way. I could feel the clouds; they brushed my face like I held yours. It never rained. In a photograph, the sun is white, so loud in its insistence to be seen that it screamed itself into oblivion, shattered into all the stars we watched, as if they might do something. As if they might move, or burn out, or chase themselves across the sky like children unfamiliar with impediments of school and time and life. As if they might come close enough to touch our outstretched hands.

There is something about the way you wake that only I know, now.

Every morning I arrive curled around your arm. Even in the dark, unconscious, we find each other, and there is a pattern in my waking, the turning over, your insistence that I stay, that is what geometry would be if geometry were quiet.

We found our way here, among the skeletons and gravestones, the faded writing spider-legged across a thousand pages waiting to be burned, found our way through no fault of my own and when you step off of the curb I never look, I only take your hand.

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