If I Hadn’t Spilt Cream Soda

Vanes of the propeller flash through my mind,

The vintage sword in the cramped kitchen never looked so vivid,

So there,

So... Solid.

My fevered mind spins,

And I'm thrown against the floor.

Sturdy hands lift me up, still tainted with the sticky residue of pineapple.

I only have his worn leather jacket to console me.

He might have still been here, you know.

If I hadn't spilt cream soda, he wouldn't have been leaning down to pick up the cheap plastic cup.

He wouldn't have been thrust off the side of the boat as it turned sharply, suddenly, without any type of warning...

And perhaps the vanes of the propeller would not have sliced through his very being.

If I hadn't spilt cream soda.