etnobofin

I imagine a conversation. We pick at blades of grass between brown sandals. The illogic of our story spins skywards over the city, soaring in the blue miracle of it all.

I imagine a conversation. You describe how an afternoon rainshower pulls the dust from the air, leaving distant hills vacant and sparkling.

I imagine a conversation. Somewhere during the music, you tell me I am made of dust, and I am surprised that this makes me happy.

I imagine a conversation. It is on a beach with footprints. We laugh as islands rise from the ocean like fish.

I imagine a conversation, which stretches for hours across a damp basement in summer. A storm tugs at the corner of a window. We snigger at our fragile bravado.

I imagine a conversation, among northern snowbanks that lie immobile by the roadside. Our talk is careful like chess, with voices muffled by whiteness.