Dementia

This is how I will fall in love with you.

You will be gracefully walking across the room of my favorite coffee shop and you will lean on the counter while placing an order for your favorite frappucino. I will turn sideways and catch you there—a radiant ball of sunshine, burning so bright that I will have to look away.

Other Sharp Objects

So I ask her: lovey, tell me about blue.

“Blue,” she says, the word slowly stretching between us, and I can hardly breathe. “Blue is raindrops. Not thunderstorms, but the normal rain that comes like tears. Blue is oceans, the deep smell of salt and fish and magic. And blue is winter, I suppose, cold, when you can’t feel your toes because the snow has gone into your wellies. That’s why blue feels sad.”