When it is raining, this boy feels alone and connected. A paradox of tone. The world a ripened fruit, not to savor, but to dig his fingers inside. To mash. This boy, sometimes, stands in the shower and pretends it’s raining. Pretends his body is a container. Pretends to open his mouth and swallow. And as equally, this boy feels sunshine. Seeds between his fingers. This boy has family and friends. A soft bed. Food. Books. Comfort. This boy types tiny stories. This boy smiles, light slivering through his teeth. This boy feels guilty, sometimes, for feeling so sad when there is all that happiness. More paradoxes. Of self. Of emotion.

This boy stands in the rain until he is chilled, and then he goes inside to warm again. His movements are practiced, choreographed, geese flying south for the winter. This boy has heard, from the internet, that it is possible to die, for one’s heart to stop, from moving too rapidly from hot to cold. To launch oneself, for example, from a hot tub into a snowbank. A split-second decision. A lifting and a falling. A ceasing. A stone sinking. This boy wonders what it means to feel death slice—if there is a moment of horrified realization—or if such a sudden end is something like falling asleep under a star-strewn sky.

Jared Povanda is an internationally published writer and freelance editor from upstate New York. His work has been published in Pidgeonholes, CHEAP POP, Maudlin House, and Splonk, among others. Find him online @JaredPovanda and jaredpovandawriting.wordpress.com

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