Three Wives

Where are my lungs? I sneezed them out on my brother's hand towel. They're still there, small lemon wedges on fabric-softened snow.

What is sleep? It is a dream, a beautiful dream, one I have not dreamt for many days. It must have felt wonderful, this dream, because my body aches for it, so much that every now and again I find myself slumped over my iBook, drool coating the semi-colon and apostrophe keys.

Who is A.? Text messages do nothing, they're impotent prefigurations of the man who sent them. A disembodied voice, I'll see you soon, I'll drop by, I miss you, space where his mouth should be. He is a puzzle piece, scattered fragments of the same whole. I lack the glue to hold him together.

Back to work. 3 articles down, 5 more to go.