In the beginning the air was cold and sweet like a backwards mausoleum. Cameron said this was the kind of sky you could drink, and then the wind picked up soft-armed and rolling. Listen: the rain rhythmic bent and streaming. The rain forming a film. I talked about half-truths and we couldn’t count how many clouds were in the sky anymore. We walked slow and made everything ours, pretended the city block was a house and we could have stopped anywhere we wanted to.
by Emily Zhang
Emily Zhang is a student. Her poetry appears in theNewerYork, The Louisville Review and Word Riot.
