By Erin Slaughter
This morning you asked about forgiveness. It was noon, but I was still in pajamas, brewing tea, talking to the walls. You asked why it matters what kind of childhood anyone had with the world going to hell piece by piece, and I remembered the way you used to laugh when we stole my parents’ cigarettes and smoked in the woods. The truth is, even when we ride in silence, the sky above stretched out like a bruise, your skin drowned in the sickly glow of a traffic light, we hope for other planets, other traffic lights, other infinities. Especially then.
Interesting. Nicely written.