by Christopher Palmer
Distorted and pale, projected on the ceiling. The familiar, warm buzzsaw sound. The feeling already starting to leave my hands.
“Yeah, I’m just at home. Sorry, I meant to call back earlier.”
Across the room, a flame stands on a candlewick with perfect posture. The smell is of a primordial spring: rose water and peony. Beneath me a wet heat starts to rise.
“Can we talk tomorrow?”
“Yeah, everything’s alright. I’m just in the middle of something.”
“Thanks. Talk soon. You too.”
The ceiling is extraordinarily gray. My breath follows the popping of the candle.
Christopher Palmer is a poet and fiction writer based out of Boston, Massachusetts, as well as a lifelong New Englander. Their work focuses primarily on synesthetic experiences, pulling inspiration from the seasons, intricacies of the human senses, and their relationship to memories.