by amy sharp


She holds her hand out and palm up shows him all the small things.
Pennies. Dust. A twig. A key. A guitar pick. Glitter. Red lipstick. 
She wishes his eyes would become neon.
Her pockets lighter
she spins around and walks away
because sometimes as much as you want to say all the right words
the ones that would be bold
and blow up the whole thing
start it
stop it
set it off
you just don't.