When Lola stands on her yoga head, everything starts to make sense. Harry’s sudden woodspice cologne, his eyes that keep looking away.
The salt smell of the others around her, their legs stabbing into the air overhead and once they are posed, everything dropping from toes, to the pelvis, to the head.
All of them emptying the dreams and false hopes they were holding. All of it drifting downward like sand. Some of it flowing easy, some of it stopped by the heart which is always the last to let go.
Francine Witte (she/her) has had flash fiction and poetry in Smokelong Quarterly, Wigleaf, and elsewhere. Her recent books are Dressed All Wrong for This and The Theory of Flesh. She lives in NYC and you can follow her on twitter @francinewitte