The Geometry of Melting Puddles

My turtleneck sweater is a soft, white cloud trapped in the gravity of this coffee shop. The air smells like roasted beans and burning seconds; I can see the time dripping off the brass railing on my left, turning into warm golden puddles at my feet.

I hold up my canvas board, but it isn't paper anymore—it's a thin sheet of ice reflecting a world that doesn't exist yet. The girl in the sketch is drawing herself out, her pencil melting through the wood to touch reality. She wears pink taffeta wings and looks at me with eyes made of shattered mirrors.

Across from us, the man strums his guitar strings until they snap into piano wire cables that lift him off his chair. We are all floating here in this warm syrupy afternoon, defying physics just to stay close. I want to draw a line around your heart with charcoal and watch it turn into smoke.

Editor: Dali’s Mustache