By Lillian Kwok
We´re running down a staircase. Faster and faster with
the wind at our backs, wind becomes ice, wind becomes
storm. We should not be laughing. We cannot breathe.
Your face desperate for air, I look behind me. Such
thrill, then terror—the speed at which this first began,
the speed at which things fall apart, the speed at which I
lose you.
Published 4/7/15. See Lillian's Awst Press page for more of her work.