We Were Only Children Layla Lenhardt The night of the meteor shower was frigid like a nun and we hiked all around campus to see it. You were all bones and sharpness and I was all arms and heart, pulsing like a dog’s tongue. You laid beside me on the dead earth, in our frozen empire while the sky fluttered apart above us. I had a button from your black peacoat in the left pocket of my white peacoat and I ran my fingers over its smooth roundness. I wanted to keep this little part of you a secret, hidden with me forever. You were humming Sufjan and in your eyes, I believed I could see the beestings and bell flowers of my childhood. Later, I cut your hair in your sister’s yellow kitchen. I held the safety scissors with motherly care, and for the first time, I loved that place, though I knew you would leave me alone in it.
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