Under the streaked window and the dust-bunnied cracks are the streams of light that come from staring too long; the whisps drawing across the room like a megaphone.
A standstill in a game of tug-a-war. A glimpse in the mirror.
For free, the advice I give. I nod off, “Leave a tip on the counter.”
The words slip and shatter on the floor. I bend to brush them up; their shards stick in me like splinters.
I’m speechless.
I turn to leave with the words within; how I long for them to be without. I shout!
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 