A burned city carbonates in my closet beneath a pile of dirty underwear, nudged there by a toe like a cat underfoot. Sometimes, I forget to change the litter, and the dishes pile up smudged with black fingerprints, but I never run out of underwear.
You smile politely when I tell you about the dragon in my pocket, sulking like Achilles in his tent.
Sometimes he burns a hole to sneak out hoping the sky will sneak back in with him. He's wasted autumn drinking with crows instead of eating them, now he finds eggshells in his pile of gold and checks the fridge for his keys. They're right where he left them. I swear to you, I groan in your ear, I can set this world on fire. I was the one who beat up Prometheus behind the dumpsters. Let me, oh god, let me burn you for just a moment.
Alexander is a thing of Brooklyn who enjoys desecrating legal pads and tormenting his cherished friends with the absurdities born thereof. He lives with four cats and the usual number of hands. For proof, you can follow him on Instagram @talldarkanddark and Twitter @talldarkanddark.