Vanessa and I talk.
We like talking.
The smell of acetone and wine
fight in the warm air.
A lull of
Avett Brothers music fills the
silence.
Our nail beds
burn,
from too many attempts at
“Nail Art”.
The clock reads
11:54 pm.
Tears
trek down our beautiful faces.
Sniffles out of place for the
humid
summer air.
Bonding never looked so
ugly.
Soon,
we will go to bed.
Soon,
we will get up
and be blissfully ignorant
to what is right.
Soon,
Vanessa will leave.
She will go back to her
“crash and burn utopia”.
But for now, it’s
11:54.
