The last time I saw you I was walking to a burrito place. You popped off the sidewalk joy streaked into your curling black locks. Those days we’d coerce scribbled numbers onto cross country phone discussions that made loneliness a pressurized conceit. In California, your freckles just iced into me in a way your voice never had. Those days I didn’t own a car. Sometimes I’d borrow a ride and we would plunge into the cornfields to argue until there was nothing to do but press our skin together.
by Hank Cherry
