memories of a man who no longer exists
Practicality sounds like her voice, like a drum, like the dance. I can hear her clapping, spinning, seething, worrying, loving, laughing, eating, chewing, hugging. She is in everything, flowing in my blood like veins. Who do we cease to be?

She is too much, everywhere, nothing, dust, comets, sunshine, glitter, ceramic, tungsten, the taste of ice against your teeth. And then she is nothing, destroyed by a single breath, a single word, a single chance encounter.

She remembers his face pressed against hers. She remembers his eyes. She mapped his pupils, his irises.

If given an exam on him, she would pass. She would get every question right, but that doesn't mean she has all the right answers. She would ace the extra credit, too.