by David James

 

Let’s say maybe you’re in a place your mind has never left, and let’s say maybe it’s Mississippi, and let’s say maybe it’s summer with kudzu throbbing green all around you, and let’s say maybe she’s a Sagittarius girl, standing in that driveway with her young breasts introducing her young tan body, and let’s say maybe you’re a Leo boy in solid geometry, staring out the window, but writing a letter in your daydream mind to her, her of the homecoming, her of deep thoughts, her of her body and let’s say you kissed her, standing in that driveway on that Sunday night beneath a cracked blue dusk when she was perfect and you loved her in your silent way, listening to what she would say, her voice making a home for you, but then let’s say maybe she moved and your world went dark at seventeen.

 

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David James is a native of Mississippi now currently living in Atlanta, Georgia. His work has been featured in various online publications and can often be found at Fictionaut.