My beating heart rests on the palm of his hand. He grips it—tight, until all the unsaid words muddle, and soon after spill out of the crevices. The contents pool on the floor.
When there’s no more left to squeeze out, the pith of it all sits on top of the mess—his reflection against the surface.
What happens when the final line is crossed?
I. THE FISSURE
II. THE CUT
III. THE CHASM
IV. THE RUPTURE
V. THE COLLAPSE
EPILOGUE: CONVERGENCE
EXTRA
2018
Saltroom Archives 