Friday, August 10, 2007

Withhold

As the last sunlight destroyed itself in the universe, I had a chance to debate with myself the meaning of the word "withhold." Experts told me that it's about keeping things from someone beautiful. What things, I asked, flowers, bananas, Chiclets, charm bracelets, children, life-saving medicines, love? They explained it was complete, that not even a smile should be given, so that the galaxy would collapse into a black hole named after your hate. I sat on the last comet zipping toward the last pinpoint of collapsed matter, and I remembered the park where we walked, its trees and ponds full of birds, and I crushed an ant in front of you, and you frowned. It's times like these that I wish I could have that ant back.

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