He asks what I write and I tell him, “short stories.”
But the stories are not short.
Not unless you want them to be.
Not unless I have a heart attack soon and die.
Not unless you just stop reading.
I have only ever had but one story to tell.
The periods are just for breathing. Your ears, like cholesterol, inside my pounding heart.
You tell me it’s okay to relax, I laugh and say, “comma down.”
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