2:00 p.m.
Sketch: Seventeen
There might be a million stars in the sky, but I can't concentrate on counting them, because I am laying side-by-side in the grass with the boy I used to think I'd marry someday with my fingers laced through his, and I'm much too busy memorizing the steady rhythm of his breath to care about anything like heaven. There are voices, loud, party voices coming at us from all angles, but we've always been good at finding our own silence. I'm pretty sure my breath smells like beer, and I know his does, but it's okay because my mom will be asleep when I finally make my way home. I'm starting college in a month. He is too, in another state, and even though we've promised to se each other at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and even though he tells me I'm crazy when I tell him I'm not sure anymore, this all feels like the last twenty minutes of really long movie -- the part after the script already gave a perfect ending, the part that pulls the story out and makes it much larger than it ever should've been, but lets you know, with each passing moment, that sometimes it's okay to keep things longer than you should.
There might be a million stars in the sky, but I can't concentrate on counting them, because I am laying side-by-side in the grass with the boy I used to think I'd marry someday with my fingers laced through his, and I'm much too busy memorizing the steady rhythm of his breath to care about anything like heaven. There are voices, loud, party voices coming at us from all angles, but we've always been good at finding our own silence. I'm pretty sure my breath smells like beer, and I know his does, but it's okay because my mom will be asleep when I finally make my way home. I'm starting college in a month. He is too, in another state, and even though we've promised to se each other at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and even though he tells me I'm crazy when I tell him I'm not sure anymore, this all feels like the last twenty minutes of really long movie -- the part after the script already gave a perfect ending, the part that pulls the story out and makes it much larger than it ever should've been, but lets you know, with each passing moment, that sometimes it's okay to keep things longer than you should.
