We didn’t think, her and I. There was just no time to think — no opportunity. We did not care to, besides.

(Writing a poem is like chasing a fly. You don’t even start writing it until it buzzes by your ear, lands on your nose and most times, disappears into the ether while you zigzag around the room, waving a towel or swinging a shoe.)

Instead we pushed (she pushed first). I drew breath from her. There was nothing else happening anywhere, anyway. Nothing as exciting as us.

Published by Cassandra

Writer and visual artist. Avid reader, cuddle bunny. Sweetie, I'd love to.

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