86. When the metallic box holding us crumpled in on itself, I did not scream. Our bodies fell into each other like the first time we loved each other. The window shattered and I felt glass tickle the back of my neck. After we stopped spinning, I found myself holding an aged hand, delicately painted nails at its end. I held her hand for the last time as we fell asleep on the bridge.
67. I held her hand and tried to memorize the position of her lips in relation to her nose and her eyes. Her lips smiled cautiously at my hospital issued blanket. A string of numbers outlined her philtrum and the soft dimples in her cheeks. They opened to speak. I did not scream even then—when my new bed sat in the corner of a cold hospital room while hers waits for me at our home, when I was aware of my mind bending out of the form she so very meticulously molded for me.
29. I met a woman. She held my hand while I screamed at the sky. She told me to scream as loud as I could. She said that if it hurts enough, then I should scream. I screamed at her God because mine abandoned me in the gray space between black and white. My lungs burned as I released anger until it was replaced with happiness, a scream molded into a laugh. She was holding my hand for the first time. She asked for my name when silence invaded my screams.
She smiled, “Nash. I like the sound of that.”
-Adam
the intersection 