Roofboy179

waning light falls from the crescent moon hanging jagged, like your fingernails in the sky. reach down and pinch me from the earth, pick me up softly into space so i can sail on the sun, bellow in a bottomless black hole, jump to jupiter and dance in the great red spot. in sixty-seven natural satellites i lose your sight but i am too shaky to shout to your frail fingers; and I doubt that the hangnails on your hands could lift my heavy heart.

Stale summer air rushed past my head as I swung downward towards the ground, only to be yanked into an upward arc right before meeting a face full of wood chips. The swing-set whined, burdened with the combined weight of me and my three friends. A fourth friend leaned against the rusting frame of the set. Acrid, mentholated smoke wafted from a cigarette dangling in his lips. As I swung higher into the humid night I watched him inhale deeply. He was pensively staring past us and into the woods. My attention was transferred to my friend Atty when she leaped off her swing at its peak height. She seemed to soar for a split-second before gravity