lkmf
they are missing from the porch. there are three poker chips under the green velvet pillow. the cards belonged to your grandmother. the dust settles for months before we open up the porch. perhaps under the couch will the cards appear?
that thing you do when you create a story about us that really you think is real but is actually something you put words to and tell yourself that is real, sort of like when you tell me it will snow but all i get is a flake or two and some dark gray sky that hangs heavily upon my car as i pull out of the driveway.
can't sleep; blankets strangle; up and down, hit the floor, bathroom belt slurps up and around feet; stumbling towards a dim light in the hall. insomniac wrestles with restrictions again.