Maybe it really was a spirit," Pen offers.
“Spirits aren't real,“ he says. "The living invent them to console themselves. If you girls ever see a spirit, you'll know for certain you're alive."
Pen crinkles her nose. "Well that's grim.
We're born moving forward. Sometimes we lose people along the way, and all we can do is watch them get smaller behind us as we move on and on.
Lauren DeStefanoShe strokes my cheeks with the side of her hand – a repetitive, wispy motion. Like little ghost kisses.
Lauren DeStefanoMots clés 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 DeStefanoMots clés poetic-fiction
He sits next to me, careful to avoid my hair that's splayed out around my head like blood. A bullet to the forehead, boom, blond waves everywhere.
Lauren DeStefanoMots clés dark-humor
He rubbed my arm, whispering words that sounded like moth bodies flying into glass windows.
Lauren DeStefanoMots clés 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 DeStefanoMots clés 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 DeStefanoMots clés poetic-fiction
Bright spots move around him like someone shook the stars from a blanket and they all went flying.
Lauren DeStefanoMots clés poetic-fiction
Childhood is a long, long road, from which that dark whispering forest of death seems an impossible destination.
Lauren DeStefanoMots clés poetic-fiction
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