We held the broken tree limb in our hands, which is how we had been waving it, madly, in the woods. We picked it up and whipped it around like a flag with no unfurling, full of energy and fervor. We walked along the path, whipping poison ivy and pointing to the birds scattering. On a turn, it wrapped against a tree trunk, and broke, and now it was just a piece of its former glory. No mind, we broke it again, and put the smallest piece in our pockets, remembering what might have been.
She ran her fingers through her dirty hair, she was through with thinking of him, through with caring for the steel soul inside the beast, when they both know it was no more than a baby rabbit, shivering in the cold, frozen in place, waiting for a hawk. "Jesus, Miera, could you stop writing such dark poetry?" he practically spat out his coffee, all over the white linen table cloth with tiny flowers embroidered on it, the one nice thing she owned, which was probably from a garage sale anyways. The mood began an ascent toward cacophony, although it was silent. Break the noise. "Well, then, turn on a light, for Pete's sake," she replied, flipping on the cold bulb. It hung there, from the ceiling, casting shadows as they stared. First at one another, then at the envelope. It had a small bird on the stamp, a perfect drawing, full of tiny lines. The lines on her fingerprints made many tiny rows, like a sand garden, raked and raked into infinity, the DNA patterns th