My Cardboard Balcony

My List by Belinda Roddie I have the names of every lover I've ever had, drawn out thick across a sheet of white paper. I keep it close, detailing every moment I felt the closest to nirvana, whether over a half-melted slice of ice cream cake, or a car ride across the Golden Gate Bridge. Some of the names are worn out and faded; others are as clear as when I first inked them. Common names and complex monikers I never would imagine existed without checking a name book prior. Some of them share the same name. Some simply show up twice. I keep my list in an envelope at night, stamped to me and addressed to me. I'll mail it out and watch it come back after the next lover scurries away on foot in a panic. They say it's not me, it's them, but I'll save their names anyway, to remember the lives I wish we had had, instead of the bullshit we survived.

Everything in the night was still, and the dawn was loud. Very loud. It belched fire in the direction of every house, lighting the roofs in Helios's golden ire. It roared rising skies like the sound of Blue Angel jets crossing the nebulae of some distant cosmic celebration. The sunrise, despite being so insignificant and so minuscule compared to the rest of the galaxy, was uncannily cacophonous - a brass trumpet blaring out the sounds of morning.