Sunday Light and Word – The Last Time

 

 

 

July D

 

 

 

The last time I saw you I was walking to a burrito place. You popped off the sidewalk joy streaked into your curling black locks. Those days we’d coerce scribbled numbers onto cross country phone discussions that made loneliness a pressurized conceit. In California, your freckles just iced  into me in a way your voice never had. Those days I didn’t own a car. Sometimes I’d borrow a ride and we would plunge into the cornfields to argue until there was nothing to do but press our skin together.

 

 

 

by Hank Cherry

 

 

 

Hank Cherry

About Hank Cherry

Hank Cherry works as a photographer, filmmaker and writer in Los Angeles. His work has appeared in Slake, Southwestern American Literature, Poydras Review, and The Los Angeles Review of Books and he writes a column about the history of jazz for Offbeat. He is in post production on his first full-length documentary.
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