Some Of How It Happened by Matt Loftin I took her to be what my psychiatrist described and handed in an easy pill. We wound ourselves on the thinnest wire of what we shared, some moment in some afternoon when we saw ourselves reflected in each others' pupils. Some summer, we must have said when we were pleasantly high, wrapped in air conditioning, watching the contractions come in our eyes when the tree outside lifted grey from the window. But Oh! was she pretty and I was later wronged in my approach, kicked out of place and somewhat run withered from all the wind that escaped surrounding mouths. And yes, the air was heavy. And yes, I recall being bent by what she blew on my face. And yes, there was always her warm body to make the words slink off my back. I lived with her in my skin and I shot myself with stories of a way to stop breathing with her mouth so close to mine. I was afraid I would inhale her, my lungs would shape her.