The back of my heel is bleeding. But it’s not my weakness, or my downfall. I can’t find one part of myself that’s indestructible or strong or remarkable A Greek hero that’s all heel, with no great acts to do, with no story to be told. There’s no fatal flaw here other than me.
Most ghosts I know are still breathing. I see them in the things I want to tell them, the time we could’ve had. They’re a shadow on my threshold, whispers in my ear. A simple fact of life, but it feels like being hollowed out. They don’t have to die for me to mourn. x …
It’s a dark — and quiet — night. The moon waits at the window, lacking the peeking curiosity of the sun. The July wind stirs the blinds, followed by orange street lamps and distant stars. Your head is on my shoulder, hair tickling my nose. You sleep. I listen to the soft stirring of the …
Ben Sidorenko's Writing 