Turned around with my arms crossed. I’m mad and all I can think about is telling him I’m never reading his stuff again. He and I both know that won’t happen. But even so I’m not responding when I do. I leave and buy the entire collection of Roald Dahl’s children’s books at a used book store. My plan is to avoid thoughts of him and when I do think of him, I’ll send some text restating that I’m mad and he needs to do something about it. If he doesn’t respond I’ll just flush my phone and that will show him for sure. I don’t need to explain my actions, it’s art, and art needs no sense. Right? Laying in bed I stare into the night. I watch the angels dance and the demons tap shoulders to cut in. I sigh, a little jealous, a little wonder struck. The white around my window panes cuts off bits and pieces of the dance, but I get the gist of it all. I want to stop looking. I want to turn around and forget it all, but you can’t unsee them. Those glorious moves they have tucked in their back pockets could swallow the ocean in one foul swoop. It’s all so amazing, but  everyone can see my cluttered walls with the blinds open at night,. I’ve convinced those who love me it’s art. “The museum of my life.” I’ll usually proclaim while pointing a finger in the air. Someone said it’s all going to be gone when you die. Then they asked what I could possibly be saving a pizza box for. That was our first and last pizza I tell them. I gently grasped the box thumbs on top as I walked backward to sit on the edge of the couch. “It’s from a collection of days that my life changed forever. You see, you can’t completely change my life in one day, it’s a process.” I went silent and thought of the first time he took me to the moon and told me to stuff the stars in my pockets. I was so excited I swallowed them instead. And even though I didn’t listen, it was ok. It was ok.

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