Memories Were Short And History

Somewhere In The Center Of My Soul, A Rusty Chain Began To Unwind. It Freed Itself, Link By Link, From Where It Had Rested, Unobserved, Waiting For Him. My Hands, Which Had Been Balled Up And Pressed Against His Chest, Unfurled With It. The Chain Continued To Drop, To An Unfathomable Depth Where There Was Nothing But Darkness And Matthew. At Last It Snapped To Its Full Length, Anchoring Me To A Vampire. Despite The Manuscript, Despite The Fact That My Hands Contained Enough Voltage To Run A Microwave, And Despite The Photograph, As Long As I Was Connected To Him, I Was Safe.

If The Butterfly Wings Its Way To The Sweet Light That Attracts It, It's Only Because It Doesn't Know That The Fire Can Consume It.

That Evening, Rowing On The Quiet River As Sunset Turned To Dusk, I Saw An Occasional Smoky Smudge On The Towpath, Always Slightly Ahead Of Me, Like A Dark Star Guiding Me Home.

Be Still,” He Said, Voice Harsh. “i Might Not Be Able To Control Myself If You Step Away.

You Do Angry. I Just Saw It. And You Left At Least One Hole In My Carpet To Prove It.