I love beginnings. The clack of the wheels on a roller coaster climb, the smell of cotton candy and grease. The anticipation, “I could die.” The stomach drop, hands in the air thrill-scream. I want to do it over and over. I think this while watching a girl on a trampoline. I want to make her a playlist.
I fail miserably in the middle. Spaghetti or take out tonight? It’s your turn to clean the bathroom. Do you want to watch a series? Lying on the grass watching the girl bounce up and down, I convince myself that she bypasses the mundane. She flings her arms up and leaps into the night. I watch her lasso starfish with locks of her long red hair and sling them into unknown galaxies.
I am so victorious in endings I should be sworn into knighthood right after I sink my jaws into the heart of my latest lover and string their teeth around my neck. I think maybe the jumping girl has disappeared, that she is flirting with an astronaut. I’m ready to move on. Then, I see her hung in the sky like a blue-morning moon, completely out of reach but refusing to give way to the sun, to say goodbye and I know that she is going to break my heart.