Photo by Mitchell Griest on Unsplash
Wake to the sun marching on your skin. Feel your cheeks warm and seal your eyes against its rays. You are alive. The day waits for you in silent heat. But, somewhere across the water, in a town foreign as the wrinkled map in your glove compartment, there’s a boy. He stands under the streetlight and the soft glow traces his figure. In this moment, when the sun sleeps, he stands as a portrait of youth. Nineteen, unblemished skin, with baby fat stored in the pockets of his cheeks. The night is young for the restless. He leans against the tilted streetlight, the center piece in his ensemble. He laughs and if you were to hear it, it would remind you of a childhood friend’s. The streetlight dulls. No one hears the dud of the tire or feels the gust of wind shoot by. It happens in a split second. They’re running, he’s running, as the blood red Chevrolet bites into the streetlight. Someone screams and it is the sounds of shattered glass, shattered lives. It is the sound that finally drags your velvet sheets back. Feet hit the cold tile. Feel your face, fat teardrops wet your palms. Your hair is damp. But somehow the sun still hangs in the sky. You are alive, the sun reminds, as it beats down in silent heat. You are alive, when so many others didn’t get the chance.
