Talking at Night

by Claire Daverley

she has one of those rare moments of clarity where everything feels real and right and untroubled, and the world is open, and there is relief, in her bones, for a while.

and their rage meets like waves crashing on sand; necessary, and inevitable.

It is all less beautiful, on the way down.

That unreachable, implausible place. Bonfires, crackling. Imploding. The sun rising, permanent, and blinding, if you look straight at it, if you’re so bold, so wanting, so goddamn, unbelievably lucky.

I wish I’d done everything on earth with you, she says.