She was ready to thank me for holding the elevator, until she noticed his lack of pants.
This migraine is an unwelcome migrant of your sincerity, now your insecurities have become my own.
A room full of jazzmen climaxing mid crescendo, while one funky grandma sips her Earl Grey.
I seek solace in your mascara, cracked with metal whips and bearded plastics. That surreal moment of sin when you’ll profess I’m in.
The foreign dignitary squeezed all his bodyguards into the elevator and got stuck. Thinking it was a coup, he surrendered to the mechanics.
The diorama of our time, to be installed in future museums, will be face tans & carpal tunnel, residues of hunted screens and gathered keys.
Three ginger snaps left, one lap to go. My sweat disintegrates the sweet. This sticky mess, my caloric run, a ruin to assess.
The crowd of fifty took pictures of the sleeping drunk, while the Sunday suits sipped their Italian flavor infused coffee behind the window.
The ladies asked the confused man to take their photo, but got instead a blurry closeup of his retina. And on the second try, my foot.
The opposite of solitude is to be perfectly lost in the gang of others. Like pollen in the wind, pawns on a chessboard, or porn on the net.
Paleness going but dirty as ever, the warm wind invites dust to collect on the thin pectorals of sunning hipsters.
After apologizing for being late, she asked why she should let me into the grad program. ‘Because I’m smart and I’m always on time,’ I lied.
They surround the snoring man, trying to decide the best way to wake him while the subway doors refuse to close on his foot.
Upon discovering someone put hotdogs on the grill, the Stein-Shah family bbq got even more massively awkward.
She ate the sesame porridge in careful spoonfuls by the counter. ‘How old do you think I am?’ She asked, then nodded to our honest reply.