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Gnostos

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I like the smell of crabapples rotting under my feet.
You like the deafening silence the ocean makes when it turns from blue to black; it promises nothing, but it beckons.
I, on the other hand, need something to stand on, toes forever en pointe, neck craning to glimpse what is already made plain to others.
You revel in relativism.
I grind my heels helplessly into decadent fruit and Sunday afternoons I spent with my father.
I like the smell of crabapples rotting under my feet.
You don’t.
But I thought you might.




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