In the interstices, I heard the static pant of your panic. You were breathing hard, tears syncopating your inhalation with tiny gasps. And then the letter.

Don’t think I haven’t written that same letter: ‘dear sir, I quit,” pages puckered with saline. Don’t think my face hasn’t hardened with the film those tears leave behind, or that my reptile tongue hasn’t recoiled at the taste of dehydrated adhesive. But what stopped me, between the bus stop and the mail box? What stopped me that didn’t stop you?

In the interstices, I heard the static pant of your panic. Didn’t you hear mine?

Popularity: 1% [?]