Honey and the Black Balloon

by Aanya F Niaz

I am vintage; because nothing conforms and nothing confirms but the tasteful illusion of what could have been and that is old, ancient, my friend. It’s the era of what needs to be, not of one’s desires, which at best are prurient. But am I the same as I was yesterday? I am the same as I am today but not always and what is left behind eludes to a travesty of what could have been, and there, my friend, there I smile with a dozen colorless balloons tied to one index finger and the sun is as black as the night sky and the moon is what honey tastes like and honey tasted better yesterday any way.

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