By David Wolpert
The glass tabletop slaps your cold sweaty cheek.
Across the dusty surface pages flip and drag your body forward.
The precipice greets you at seven frames per second, the summer
heat glistens like a weapon, slows down your descent to the moment
you met him.
He met you,
a jagged drawing on cardboard paper, energy so flat that your actions tapered.
Limbs trembled ‘til smoke was created. Joints burned before the fumes abated.
He cannot be seen as he hangs you on his wall; the proverbial nightmare portrait
forever in the hall. The images trickle back, knowing well the gallery precedes the fall.
David Wolpert is currently majoring in nothing with a minor in bromeopathic medicine. He regrets this joke and would like it redacted immediately.