In the long silence that is possibility
you got lost and I died like a flower.
Some jokes aren’t meant to make you laugh.
Others exist only to topple themselves
in our paralyzed hands, so tiny they no longer exist.
The boundaries we stepped over were drawn in pale blue.
The walls we banged on always a shade too white to be believable
so instead we called them frantic examples of our lives.
The time we took pills together was
a day I made up. Such fantasies don’t happen
between two failing oceans or between two falling trees.
This distance you have created flatters your face,
the incongruence of light against light.
I notice how quickly your eyes have lost their shape
and I stop to pluck one loose from its socket.
I put it quietly in my pocket and walk a mile toward home.
Before I get home I will lose the meaning of the ruined sky.
Before you I didn’t know what it meant to be a fable either.
I now know the whole story you told me backwards as if
it were my own flutish hand or an abandoned lake with ten names.
I’m working towards a new motto.
It will include your name, but only once.
I have an arrow and I will shoot it straight into the dark.
If you draw a circle today, it might never end.

ESZTER TAKACS is an MFA candidate at the University of Arkansas. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Phoebe, Barn Owl Review, Word Riot, DIAGRAM, Utter, Birdfeast, Mixed Fruit, ILK Poetry, and THRUSH. She blogs photos at