Austin Treat

Fiction. 1 minute to read.

Your Sweatshirt cupped over my nose smells like Bounty mixed with Rose. If I could, I’d drink it up like Dramamine and fly kaleidoscope cars through your perfect little toes.

I think paradise is lost in dreams, and that’s cruel, the way they tease. Sometimes I’m chased from sleep so fast I forget to breathe. Pitch black is the world around me; it’s a smothered, stale fragrance without sleep; I know that’s no convalescence. But the Sweatshirt keeps your essence. Blink once. Blink twice into the void. Your face appears in polaroid. Pin it on my wall. Write until my eyes fall.