It's better to have nothing,' the children were saying.
Marilynne RobinsonTags: beauty homelessness poetic-fiction
She strokes my cheeks with the side of her hand – a repetitive, wispy motion. Like little ghost kisses.
Lauren DeStefanoTags: poetic-fiction
He rubbed my arm, whispering words that sounded like moth bodies flying into glass windows.
Lauren DeStefanoTags: poetic-fiction
I wanted so badly to tell him, but something about that entire night seemed so beautiful, so bizarre, that I didn't trust it with my secrets.
Lauren DeStefanoTags: poetic-fiction
I feel unburdened, and after a while I start to imagine that the divan is a boat moving over the ocean. Sunken cities play music beneath the waves. The ghosts are stirring.
Lauren DeStefanoTags: poetic-fiction
I wipe at her cheeks with the cuff of my green sweater because it’s the softest thing I can think of. It catches her tears without absorbing them, and they hang between the fibers like stars.
Lauren DeStefanoTags: poetic-fiction
Childhood is a long, long road, from which that dark whispering forest of death seems an impossible destination.
Lauren DeStefanoTags: poetic-fiction
Bright spots move around him like someone shook the stars from a blanket and they all went flying.
Lauren DeStefanoTags: poetic-fiction
I watch the ashes swim around like dandelion puffs, making swirls where bodies and walls once stood.
Lauren DeStefanoTags: dark poetic-fiction
It feels as though we’re going in slow motion. I think we’ll never get away. But eventually the Ferris wheel is far enough away that it could be a moving constellation.
Lauren DeStefanoTags: poetic-fiction
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