Before I married, I was a plume of gas. His hands grasped through me. Slowly, slowly, I set into that which can be held. Or be hurt. My cracked lips taste of summer on the turn. I press on raised veins on the backs of my hands, trace a map of mortality along my skin. Never to return to a noble gas, perhaps I can cling to another to become a compound.
Everyone’s Hon to May. Even strangers. Especially strangers whom you want to feel at home like their regular diner. The regulars are all Hons, only the teens are not Hons, they are Hey Guys or You Guys or Hey Gals or You Gals.
With a whoosh and thud, he lands on the courtyard wall, and I leap up, startled, my book flying off my lap. His wings are twin arcs of pure light, and he smells of wet leaves and burnt umber.
It matters who says it first is first and I love you for it sometimes I love you and sometimes you’re first but there are days oh my those days when I
