Movie Night

Standard

It’s summer, and I still live at

home. As we roll and rattle down the

Mass Pike, in a car older than any of its

three passengers 150 miles from my own

suburbia, I watch as the tops of the trees

engulf the sky in the low dusk light

like stagnant black smoke, and I think

about how much bigger the sky looks here.

 

I’m listening to your laughter bounce from

the windshield to the backseat and back

again, and as per usual I don’t know what

you two find so funny but I can say with

absolute certainty all I want is to bottle your

giggles, film you cackling so hard there are

delicate lines of mascara tracing trails down

your cheeks, and to watch you both catch

moonlight between your fingertips forever.

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Goodnight

Standard

It was there I

almost cried.

Barefoot

in the driveway

as always,

standing on just

my inner

six toes

so I could

kiss you

goodnight

through

the sticky

July air, my

arms wrapped

fully over your

neck, my calves

over-stretched

enough so

that six toes

became four,

then two, and

it was there

that you

told me you

loved me.

Beacon

Standard

For once,
I looked at
the tower
whose lights
had guided me
home
so many times,
as the
bitter wind
tore at
the cuts
on my face,
without
one ounce of
pain or
a single
rouge tear.
Instead,
I fixed my
gaze upon
the very
topmost
light of the
sky-piercing
spiral and
declared
it was over
because
there is
a whole world
out there
beyond
its shine.

Highway

Standard

There was one
lone car
beneath the
overpass, speeding
through the darkness
with nothing
but red
beams permeating
from behind, alongside
the industrial
lights that seemed
to stretch
forever
until they touched
the skyline, as
if to say
“go.”