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"Maybe it’s the way Nicky is holding him as time dances clumsily across the decades, maybe it’s the decadent despair of grieving a man that’s standing right next to him. He’s tired in that way that old oak creaks when you press your palms to it. That way it splits, splinters down the spine if you push too hard. That way some wounds cut you when you press your fingers to the sharp gaping hole it creates."
Joe and Nicky contemplate the same things seperately, across centuries, and Joe has some disagreements about Neruda.
Series
- Part 3 of sonnet xvii