by Lydia Gompper
There were two boys who thought they held the world
Between their calloused fingertips.
They reclined against the hood of their dying car,
Sinking into that one dent, from that one time
When they did that one thing
With that one girl.
The first boy licked his thumb and turned a thin, worn page
Of the only book he’d admit to liking.
The second had never had much interest
In turning pages.The sky turned fuzzy‐red and soft
And an empty sigh blew through the world.
The boys existed slowly, creatures of fog and shallow breathing,
Motionless, but as fast, truly, as the world.
“We should,” said the first boy, and suggested a long‐suggested task.
“Yeah,” hummed the second, and kicked a lonely pebble.
The boys bumped shoulders and shared a cigarette.
Author Biography: Lydia Gompper is a junior at George Mason High School and plans to study history and music in college. She enjoys theater, singing, and journalistic critique. She also loves her cats.