Crickets This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.

January 29, 2009
I once heard that to write well
You have to write what you remember.

And this is what I remember;

Sun-popped freckles danced upon our ­overcooked bodies,
And opened pores dripped with sweat.
Green blades of wet grass dangled on our feet,
As we leaped about in our summer skin.

Crickets laughed at the moon,
And drinks spilled on the fire,
As we sat in our own smoke for hours,
In the dusk of the summer dirt.

And in one moment summer blew away,
Like a red balloon
That slipped from a child's finger at a carnival.
And we shed our careless skin,
As the leaves leaked their colors,
And the pumpkins were being picked from their patches.

And then it just happened.
The grass coiled brown,
And the rotting leaves blanketed the streets.
And the cancerous pepper began to spread
With each passing month.
And you started to wither like a towel
Accidentally left out in the rain.

If only our favorite moments had lasted a ­little longer,
Then maybe we wouldn't have to lose sleep
Over what we did wrong,
Or what we would do over.

And like the crickets preaching
Through the meadows in June,
There's comfort in the sound of existence
When the IV beeps,
Or when the tank of oxygen puffs with each inhale that is taken,
In hopes that tomorrow will bring something better.
In hopes that life will carry on for one more night.

And it is in this moment that
Freedom is stolen.
And everyday gratifications
Quickly become everyday impossibilities.
That life is just a vessel waiting to be released,
Because there's always an ambushed soul
That didn't get the chance.
And this,
This is what I will remember.

This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.

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