Direction

Our real and artificial observations link the negative space separating my reluctance from your confusion.

I trust you’ll let me know when it’s safe to drink reprieve with the lovely cup I have hidden in my hands.

It doesn’t take long to realize we’re both lonelier than a crowd of strangers heading anywhere but the halted elevator they find themselves in.

I don’t want to believe you when you say you’re becoming translucent; from my periphery I can see grains at your feet becoming roots; sprouts of sheaves like wings at your backside.

Nearly fearful, I’m counting incongruities in my breathing patterns as I turn away; the doors are opening and you have a choice to make for yourself.

Ethan Phibbs currently resides in the outgrown shoes of his hometown, Jacksonville, Illinois, where he works odd jobs, reads and writes. An avid traveler, he hopes to experience every rich culture our world has to offer. His work is forthcoming in Unbroken Journal, Mulberry Fork Review and Ink In Thirds.

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