After Graduation
In the straitjacket of summer, we go to a movie about a dying man. He gets better for a while, but in the end he dies anyway. At the ice cream parlor by the old mall—near the fog line your mom and sister crossed over—we don’t talk about the dying man. Warm apple wedges convulse on your tongue and I worry I’ll taste them when we kiss. Under the moon and splitting almonds, you trace my ear—silver heart, treble clef, peace sign—and talk about God. We don’t kiss. I’m trying on atheism and cannot hear you.
Photo Credit: Chiara Coetzee (edited)
I like this one a lot good job!
Ah, thank you for reading and commenting!
Wonderful. That’s all, simply wonderful.
Thank you, Tony! I appreciate that your comment, like these stories, was brief and specific (and so kind).