He carved them into the bench at the park.
Not a tree. A bench.
I work late three nights a week.
When I get home the apartment is dark.
Medium rare. No pink on the edges. Crispy outside.
That's how I order steak.
In crowds her hand finds my back.
Not to push. Not to steer.
I bought a keyboard in January.
Watched tutorials every night for three months.
He walked into my apartment for the first time.
Looked around. Said nice place.
She called me from a trail last Saturday.
Didn't say anything for ten seconds.
He falls asleep in the car on long drives.
His head tilts.
My closet used to be entirely black.
Safe. Simple. Invisible.
She has eighty two plants in her garden.
I couldn't tell a rose from a weed before her.
The truck was at pump three.
A country song came through the open windows.
My favorite shirt had a hole near the seam.
I was going to throw it out.