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Weekly Contest #335
I have a scrapbook of you. Every time I open it, a raw, tender warmth satiates me, as though we share an invisible thread, a latent bond. I’m revisiting our moments every night in lucid dreams, a recurring fantasy that I never want to forget. I keep this to myself. It’s been ages–two weeks since I last saw you–and the universe is closing in. I sleep adrift. Often, I climb onto the raven-painted plywood ladder Popps made for my birthday; the one to hang the star on the Christmas tree. I stretch the ladder into its full-capacity, climbing up ...
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