out of control: completely accurate

A Romantic Comedy without the Bitch

Crouched outside his car at night, He is in the driveway, feeling the pavement with his hands.

He was convinced something had fallen out of his pocket. He had heard it, thought he heard something metallic. It sounded important. His fingers scrape along the ground and brush against stiff weeds that cling to the cement cracks. He lowers his head to get a closer look at the ground.

Unsure of exact size of this thing - whatever it was that he was looking for, he realized he may not find it like this, exhaustively searching the small spots, absorbing the intricate chaos of cement up close. he steps back, lets his head sweep to the left and right. Light will shimmer off it, if it's there, he thinks. This should be easy, but he must look like an idiot, slumped over the ground like that. A complete drunk, probably. He had better find what he's looking for soon, or the inlaws will make him feel worthless again. He couldn't stand that. Who were they, afterall? People with their own small things, untracable, and unrecognizable. He had lost his thing, and, though he wasn't sure of much anymore, he was sure that they lost their things sometimes, too. Why anything should matter so much left him confused but comfortable. The frustration he had begins to loosen itself.

A wind picks up enough to draw his attention. Trees rustle. Leaves slide across an empty street. Leaving its hiding spot, a lone bunny darts across the front lawn. His eyes follow the bunny to its next hiding spot with ease. the wind grows more violent. More rustling, then only calm.

Finally, everything is silent. He notices the quiet roar of night when no one is around. Standing up, he turns his head to face the next wind to come. The moon casts his shadow before him. He wishes he had a dog's instinct. Soon, he thinks. Soon.

the sound of actual things dying.

hairs on his back wave back and forth arbitrarily like the silver feelers of seaweed that wrapped around his ankle, pulling him under. his gasps for air were unheard while he writhed and convulsed and all the trees he could see merged into one black pillar from just below the surface.

hardly

imagine my body marble. the face of my statue has begun to erode. a chunk of my nose cracked off and broke my toe. little girls come see my statue and place bouquets of dried chrysanthemums in each hand. their hardened bulbs are like cocoons, peeling in the harsh wind, revealing only dead flowers. the clouds above my head have thinned into a pink mist and the city is stuck on the horizon behind me for how long? i wait and let the moss begin to kiss my feet.