Tomorrow, when all that’s left are footprints in the grass and forgotten orange peels, we’ll take the long way home. Boxes on the porch, your whole life packed neat. You’ll ride passenger in your dad’s Tacoma, past the Welcome to Georgia sign. Windows down, Corgi in your lap, asleep.
Tonight, moonlight soaks the pasture. My heart is in my throat. I’m too aware of my own breathing.
Look, you say, pointing up. There’s Orion.
I turn to tell you I love you.
But you aren’t paying attention.
What you’ll remember: a childhood friend, the quiet, and Orion that is actually Perseus.