He thinks of her every six months or 6,000 miles. The Soul Asylum souvenir T‑shirt she gave him became an inside-out oil rag in his garage. She insists the band is his favorite. It’s not. Ever since high school and he first heard the song “Shine,” Collective Soul is the group he prefers. She weeps in fear during thunderstorms and he pretends not to notice; he wears unplugged stereo headphones, listens to the calming schoosh of blood in his ears, and nods to a nonexistent beat. He never says her name while they make love but screams his own at the most intimate moments. She deletes unread emails from his inbox while he sleeps. He doesn’t know where she is now and it’s likely she doesn’t either. No matter how far or fast he walks in one direction, he can’t slow the Earth’s rotation. He gathers each roadside memorial’s piled bouquets and carries them to the next glittered cross, and from that one to the next, and so on. His only ambition is to end his journey whence he began. Her voice is stronger than trees. Above, the mountain snowcap wears a scarf of freezing vapor; below, a pageantry of wildflowers blankets the meadowland. Stillness flows back in whenever cicadas pause their courtship songs. She faces the sun, soaks up its glow, through eyelids lets the world burn ruddy. The divided sky is half daytime and half night. Behind her the full moon gleams mottled white against black canvas. If she turns around and opens her eyes, she’ll own every lunar sea she can name.
~
Michael Grant Smith wears sleeveless T‑shirts, weather permitting. His writing appears or appeared in elimae, Ellipsis Zine, MoonPark Review, Bending Genres, The Airgonaut, trampset, Blood+Honey, and elsewhere. Michael resides in Ohio. He has traveled to Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Cincinnati. Michael hopes to trick a small press into publishing his debut short-story collection and his first novel. For more Michael, please visit www.michaelgrantsmith.com, @MGSatMGScom, and @michaelgrantsmith.bsky.social.