but this too is true: stories can save us

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what sticks to memory, often, are those odd little fragments that have no beginning and no end.

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once upon a time i danced with dangerous boys in dark bars—boys with cheekbones that cut, with long fingers and cunning cat smiles, with rolled-up sleeves and unbuttoned shirts, with whiskey whispers and music. i was a ghost among ghosts, lost in new york, but thoroughly found in the center of a dirt-floored speakeasy. for those few moments among the living, i was at home, spinning, my toes in the dirt and my hands in his hands, alive.

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