Fabricated

Written by Jacob Ibrag

Sometimes I don’t

know what to write.

Mind emptier than a

homeless man’s stomach.

Then I remember that

time we walked down

the aisle and had our

first child. Little fingers

holding onto our thumbs

as we kissed underneath

the rising sun.  That

never happened though,

at least not in this

dimension. I like to

believe that we’re

exchanging vows

somewhere in a parallel

universe. Not a huge

affair, just a few people

we care about and the

warm sand caressing

our soles. And in this

place, Murphy’s law

doesn’t exist and

anything that can go

wrong is another

fabricated myth.

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Artist Unknown