Was there a conversation

The brain doesn’t seem to have a space for nothing. With no center to stitch an image around, it slackens, it cannot hold.

She sets her hands on the amorphous lump of clay, willing it to show her its destiny. Upon initiating the whirring wheel, she wished she would feel transported to an artistic flow state. Malheureusement, such a magic remained elusive, and she battles with the hard, wet earth. Instead of corralling it up and out as she had seen him do, she feels the partially hollow clay mass push against her wavering strength, an internal mischievousness showing through.

What is love if not a broken back when someone dies? If not mystifying tunes played a todo volúmen while rushing down the interstate?

The snow fell in turbulent spirals. The tortuous, bifurcating veins of the trees suspended in humid thickness. Their gentle intersections cradling the white, sticky display of release. Footprints grazed the green and brown of previous. A red-breasted bird made its jittery presence known, only to evade gaze again under the bush.

Astrophysically, any object exerts a gravity on any other object.

She takes in the new moon, planets poking holes through the dark sheet, partially obscured by the lumbering clouds. She used to spend her shooting star wishes on things other people called luck. She used to spend them on herself. Then for a long time, her stars were dedicated to him. Tonight, she would sacrifice to see one, to believe in its luck. Later, she will feel blessed to spot even static stars, the cosmic trails of dying ones–and their wishes, unmade–fully obscured by the luminous fog of the city.

What happens to a life unlived? The souls of their non-existent children play chess and go swimming somewhere in the beyond. The lives they would have saved get saved by the rest of us, or so we musthope.

From the author: Losing someone can feel like it puts us in a liminal space: we may feel lost or a lack of belonging. They are not here but the memories of them are. We are here but we are conscious of something beyond life. We are okay but not okay. It's hard to think about the future but it's hard to be in the moment too. This mix of poetry/prose tries to give words to these feelings of uncertainty.