Magazine, website & books written by teens since 1989

He is Memory

Custom User Avatar
More by this author
Sitting here, now, I
Remember the way he winked
At me, the rogue, and
Slid his ring onto the tip of my
Pale, shaking finger.
I should have trimmed my nails.

He would run a
Mile through the frosted fall grass,
Feet bare, toes numb;
Rosy cheeks and clouded breath, coming
Urgent, short...
Puffs like smoke
From an old

I remember the way his
Eyes danced as he
Brushed the sugar from
My nose - fine white powder
Lurking on his fingertips - and
Strummed for me a sad old song,
The world's oldest song, on his

Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

Site Feedback