Prose

photo by Anca Luchit

 

Hollow

I was lost and looking for my keys, for answers, for songs that tell me everything’s going to be all right. Hum a few bars and glide through the dark, past the exposed roots, all that anchored you to me: egg, skillet, stone. I still lock myself in the bathroom to cry. It would be different if you had died.

by Victoria Melekian