Space

You have to make space for me, she says. You fill your days right up to the edges, like wads of cotton packed against your gum after a trip to the dentist. You have to open to me. Make space. Hold space. Let me in.

Whatever it takes.

But it’s too raw and unformed and there’s a deep well of words and for some reason you keep dipping your bucket in and then emptying it back out and all that’s coming up is wanting to hold a boy’s hand and the fading memory of his lips and…and…and…

And then she’s gone.