A remote sadness squatted on the glimmer of Margaret Sue’s eyes, and Bryan sat pining for her. The allure of M.S.’s awkward confidence, her shying away with insecurity despite privilege,  afraid, but with a bold grasp, as though a cat’s paw toying with mice and she would back away, fearing real independence, when suddenly facing decisions. He was not invisible to her and this counted for much but her needs required something he could not give her, a reason to stay behind. 

There is a fire born in the seams of a pillow;

a luminous sentiment,

breaking through the stiff fabric of routine,

emerging out of disciplined seas;

defining form in shadows,

living

breaths plied,

as effort, becoming work,

the occupation of industry’s muse

bound by no wall and

the verdict of (your) gorgeous thoughts,

runs free

as water

over lands’ new stretch.