Her mother was the first.
She was the antecedent
domino, the
beginning of her
daughter's spiral towards
a cool numbness.
She kissed the little girl's
rosy cheeks and assured
her there would be a
glorious reunion.
Then she pushed open
the front door and
began what her daughter
would later label
"The Revolving Door Effect"
on every inch
of her hear.
He was the seventh.
He had two choices:
the jungle with its
fictitious toads and
his tribe or
her love.
She dabbed her chrysanthemum
lashes and turned
away from him. She slammed
the adjacent door, locking it tight.
She didn't want revolving doors
snapping her heart between in
its crevices.
The waves scooped up her
petite bones and rocked
her to sleep along the
journey home.
He was the twelfth.
The last of the revolvers.
The one who pried open
her door and once
safely past the
panel, shut it again.
He had every intention
of being her eternity.
He drank tea and
scribbled calligraphy
across the slope of
her waist and
translated it into
forever. She dipped
her brush into
blueberries and painted
comets across his ribs
and sketched the
Milky Way over his
spinal cord, kissing
away the black holes.
She waited for the time
when he would snap the
lock and press the
start button, setting
"The Revolving Door Effect"
into motion.
He kissed forever on
the crease of her elbow,
the dip below her belly
button, and her jutting
collar bone. He
whispered it until she
took the master key and
swallowed it,
permanently locking
her revolving door
forever.