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	Dying Eggs for Tomorrow, I make a crack in the egg to suck its inside out crying over lost redheads. You are beside me in your nod, your soft arms squeezable with my excitement protectively resting on your chest. We remark on common names and less than distant growing pains of parents. We dip our shells in colors too vinagery to take. I don't want to let mine set, you dont want yours out of your hand to break. We laugh a minute not sure what at, not minding either, and I think that this is okay, the space we keep across a table from our friends with their companions and their company. I think that your pale egg uses pink and purple in ways that are more beautiful than female. You think you are afraid of it when it is off the spoon and waiting for an elbow to knock it. Even worse if it was never knocked to the ground so that it could feel the air rush into its hollow in the three foot fall. You are crying now and I am trying to say my arm is soft. I catch my eggs in it when they are falling, I can catch yours, too.
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