Right now I'm nursing a day-after-a-dance-party feeling.
My computer overlooks a window that overlooks a downtown that overlooks the rest of Houston.
It's warm outside. I'm doing what I can to get my feet out the door.
But next to me, close enough to touch, is a blue glass vase of orange flowers.
They are Past.
One by one they are drooping and dropping.
If I sit here long enough and look only at them, I can catch sight of one petal falling on the table as it falls.
They have the weight of words on a postcard.
They are wilted but still flesh-tender & they stack on the table like bandages.
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