Bunny

Unlike my street, which smells of sad man piss, hers smells of autumn leaves

A pause so pregnant it delivers, consumes its own spawn, then grows big with child again

(Is it me drowning you, Samantha, or did you wade in here of your own free will, your pockets full of black stones?)

Well. Because I love you, Bunny. Actually. You’re actually my favorite.

You’re my favorite too, I lied. But in that moment, I meant it. I meant it so much I cried.

“The real world, lady. It’s out there. Do you even know that? You’re going to have to get back to it sometime.”

Why can’t you be happy? Why do you always assume the worst about every situation?

“Being with you,” he says to Ava, “is like being in literature. I have no idea where you’ll lead me next. But I’m excited. My life could change. And I’m not alone anymore.”

How I left that night. Wondering what the hell just happened. Knowing nothing happened, knowing too that everything had changed. How empty and emptied I felt walking away with all my words still on his floor. Wanting

A few faltering stories last fall for the Lion when I still lived under that sun.

But know what, exactly? What is there to really know? Sometimes when I tell myself or Ava the story, it grows teeth and it’s something. Definitely something. Other times, it comes apart in my hands like air. But if I remember all the right details. If I tell them in the right order. If I pause in the right places, trail off in the right places . . .