...and the flickering street lamp
.clicks.
and
.plinks.
overhead tonight
when the air is thick
of a summer day's
residue
when she walks with me
talking of us
(almost magical)
and when her hair brushes
my shoulder
she hardly hears the
chorus of crickets
...or the pizzicato of a
dank summer night's lamp
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.




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