We put feathers in each other’s hair in my basement. My basement is still crawling with them. Feathers swim on the air filter’s breeze, landing on and launching off of my mandala rug.

It was a silly thing, that time we found ourselves connected. It was silly because it was true. You loved me and I loved you and we loved in the midst of a sand-covered desert, a space that was almost completely sand. We were best friends for a while, chicks hatching out of best friend eggs, and then we weren’t.

We fell apart. That was probably my fault. I was working on something like englightment while summer dawned and danced and I loved you. I showed you that and then it fell apart. 

There was a funeral for a lizard. And then it fell apart.

You left me, abandoned me for reasons I still regret, that I still blame myself for. And so it fell apart.

How was the rest of your summer? Mine was pavement reunions and long drives and flights. I celebrated in foreign countries and, for some reason, you didn’t stop watching.

Fall says no. Still the feathers flutter. Still the shot glasses are recovered. Is this truly silly now?

RVA. Alison is an Ashtangi, a pickler, a single mom, a sex toy reviewer, a corporate president, a recovering Barbie collector, a Leo, and a writer. She is currently working on a memoir, navigating an open partnership, and seriously considering sexual surrogacy. Her heart hangs out at Throats To The Sky.