Interstate 490 |
Issue 6
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I was half-awake when I first met him,
running on less than seven hundred dollars and a half-full cold brew, a handful of hours away from home. His fingers were dipped in sugar, and he let me kiss them down to the bone, with the promise to pick up the phone once I went home, lips pressing in-between my eyes, in that precious piece of skin. I miss his hands like they were my own, that steady, sure cadence of his fingers on the back of my chair. I’ve started closing my eyes when I’m driving, Pretending like he’s the one taking me home. I have so much love, with nowhere to put all, so I’ve taken to gardening, watching the dandelions blossom in the shape of his face, his nose sloping like a verse of Shakespeare, his neck a perfect curve for me to dream. We met on a chance, and I’m too afraid to call. My kitchen smells the same, and I see him there. He’s eating, he’s cooking, he’s stretching in the corner, he’s taking out the trash. The shape of him stamped everywhere along the aching stretch of my eyelid. |
ROUEN NELSON is an 18 year old writer and musician from New Jersey. He hopes you enjoy his work, as well as the work of all others included in the issue.
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