Danae Younge

Everything, our whole little world ensnared in a forest of thick, dark curls reaching up to the sky. I remember being taught that eyelashes stop the dust from getting in. Everything caught in the accidental act: road signs, apartment keys, shards of sky, mountains turned upside down, the thousands of tongues that got stuck to anything frozen, pants and blouses and coats and bikinis attached to people or not. I hopped from one fragment of road to the next, the asphalt broken and crumbled. I wanted to know what view was valuable enough for a lash line to suspend an entire universe. Each curl added to the maze that no one had deciphered or even cared to try. I thought curiosity would be sticky and slow like honey, but there were no traces of it here—it was the only thing that fell through.