Huma Rojo (2)Charles Jensen
The beginning of the end is not a moment but a song: tender notes you know you've heard before, the sound a lover makes in her throat to answer some silly question you've posed— and the end comes after it like the explosions from far-away fireworks: delayed, embittered, put out. And though the lover has her cries— the one for loving, the one for lonesomeness, the cry that signals sleep will come, the cry that coats the body in its low, warm vibration— the end has no cry; the end like a tire's slow leak comes with a hiss, a delicate release that, unnoticed, leaves lovers stranded on the island of each-otherness, that foreign-tongue place where maps are published inside-out, where even the texture of the grass is wrong: sharper, more like a lawn of tiny sticks than a bed to shelter a stranger's back.
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