ennui

perpetuation

i. the way his lips taste. not lemon or mint, no honeydew on his breath, but just as lovely; how you miss it now, and how you'll crave it when he's gone.

ii. sparkling words like zigzag bubbles in a bottle, rising and popping and making you feel dizzy. there's no substance, you know, they're just air that can kill if you inhale too much, but you drink them twice a day.

iii. his hands could crush you if you let them. strong on the wheel, strong on his thigh, stronger on your neck. sometimes all you want is to hear the snap.

iv. hang the flowers he's given you upside down, so they'll be preserved as if in zero gravity. sepia and wrinkled like an age old photograph, but with the kiss of past emotion intact.

v. is perpetuation worth the sacrifice of possibility?