Two hundred and seven words. 19

by kvennarad

207 Put her in an empty piazza, a field, a broad carse or fen, a long beach to the level sea with the sky folding over, and she’ll be content to let the merciful wind reduce her, to tug away at her self until there’s little more than a grain of her left indistinguishable from the whole (though maybe a looker-on would still seem to see her), to be a slight buzz, a trace in a bigger mix; but add others, and keep adding, and that’s when she becomes so aware of herself that she feels the world tip, trying to shake her off, and she has to grip onto the ground to stop a fall, and that grip itself is one of complete pain – once, and maybe once again, she felt steadying arms, a voice, and a breathing in time with hers, it may have been on a day when the air was full of kick-up dust and noise, or it may not, but full it was of whatever, and that embrace, those breaths, the near-coincidence of heartbeats fooled her to think of love, and maybe it was, but it’s gone now, leaving her with only a pale to drive into the ground and to hold on


jupiter©Marie Marshall