Author | Audrey Larcher
the glow of a gas station illuminates your space in my memory
Chevron- the one we meet behind when im asleep
muted blue
subdued red
sputtering in and out of life
a light show of the dullest magnitude
but still smoldering
burning into the tissue
branding the corridors of my thoughts
with a slow and gentle persistence
i process your departure the way i process your promises
how surreal
how unthinkable
surging past cerebral sinews
over and over and over and —
now
perhaps
thinkable
when bathed in incandescent.
yours.
a blip across the LCD and it is falling away from everything further forward into nothing as the floor peels backward and the ceilings ascend and the gaps that separate us form a spiral and its real estate remember at least it was before it abandoned form it will abandon you too
that is
the next step
a glimpse of halcyon yesterday
the possibility of you is far too overwhelming
i burst on the park bench
thinking of all you are
my organs, perforated, unfolding
their case (slumped over) remains intact
the gas station glow
will lend the surgeon light
About the Author | Audrey Larcher is a thinker and activist who occasionally composes decent poetry. Although she writes opinion columns for The Daily Texan and keeps a notebook chock-full of strange musings, this is her first published creative writing piece. She currently studies Plan II, Philosophy, and Journalism at the University of Texas at Austin. In her free time, Audrey reads Bookchin, thinks about revolution, and sits on top of parking garages.