By Morgan Williams
We are eating mint chocolate chip ice cream in
the glow of the refrigerator light.
It is past midnight and
neither of us are hungry.
Both of us are happy.
You and I have known each other
since preschool.
So, essentially,
forever.
We have graduated from the
school of hating our parents.
We have just started hating ourselves. We
are of the ripe age of gossiping
and grabbing our extra skin in the mirror
when no one is looking.
We are on the brink of the sadness.
the same one that will drown
us both for a few years.
The same one that will continue
to come down on us from time to time.
And us, the unprepared fools,
will just let it soak up our clothes,
drip from our brow bones,
and over our lips.
We don’t talk much anymore,
but you called me last week.
I answered the phone and heard your
crying and instantly we were
twelve years old.
We were best friends again
and the familiarity left a hole
in my lungs the size of all secrets
we told each other after the lights
went out.
