(no subject)
Sitting on the back of the car, leaning back, looking up at the stars we could see through the shine of parking-lot lights, swinging our feet, talking about anything that came to mind, smiling and laughing and sharing and side by side, cicadas singing out of sight, two friends on a just-a-little-chilly July evening.
"You'd better write," he told me. "You talk about it enough."
I do. I sort of do. I do sometimes, and I love it when I really write. I don't do it enough. I really should. It makes me whole.
"You'd better write," he told me. "You talk about it enough."
I do. I sort of do. I do sometimes, and I love it when I really write. I don't do it enough. I really should. It makes me whole.