Like a used book in the library free bin, you’ve become an overlooked thing that no one wants to check out anymore. But I’m one of the few people left who can read you differently; remember the minor scandals caused when you walked past the snack stand at Washington Park in a wet t-shirt pressed over a light-blue bikini. Your mania gave birth to a body which spoke with warped energy and chromatic fragrance in a voice misunderstood by all but my most ancient self. Yet still, your touch thuds with the essence of unrealized destiny, a technique taking us to the place where undertakers choose to congregate in a muddy huddle deciding whether what remains of us needs to be frozen or embalmed. Neither of us ever thought we’d see the death of print or the desirability in each other; couldn’t have imagined that the sun would stop slavering so soon.
Richard King Perkins IIis a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL, USA with his wife, Vickie and daughter, Sage. He is a three-time Pushcart, Best of the Net and Best of the Web nominee whose work has appeared in more than a thousand publications.