It began with my need for a cheek jacket. I bought it the first time with left half of my lips missing as if hidden in some box, fortnight plus five of the era since done. The cheek jacket came sheathed in a squared casket with foil typography penned with machined technique. I could tell your unassuming thoughts when I raised the casket, from the way your eyebrows formed 3 unequal lines on your pore less temples. I still had to, the alternative was leather-colored vellum forming a seared crust, living in infinite permanence. Stakes as high as unnerved chatter, you embarked with your arm intertwined with mine. I compensated the dealer by brushing in pseudo banknotes. You acknowledged the dealer’s sallow pores and as it escaped, you saw my eyelashes droop in my sockets. You amended by picking out one webbed threadlike fiber at any pace. After gathering all 150, you took out the corpuscle matchbox sewed to the chest hair growing on your left chest view and laid them in before depressing the clammy drawer. As I heard the engine rev a hollow fog, both of our clocks started to gag fluid vapors. With the cheek jacket stoned in the casket, my fingers dug in deeper as I looked to the raw fortnight advancing. The dealer had sworn with molded guarantee and I saw the ashy grip with no metal cuts. My cheeks would be liberated of sanguine canals. Just a marked fortnight, or so, as drafted on the cardboard casket.


Sarah Edwards is a writer and/or a poet. She is breathing for now. Her mostly neglected tumblr.