You and I crawl through the tunnel of this mountain, trying to

find a place where our bodies fit just right. After two wrong turns you

stop and look at me. I never did get tired of those eyes. I pretend to swoon but

I know better. These eyes get me nowhere with you. You’d rather marry the dark

than give into the sun.

Maybe it was between the moment when I first cried and the one where I broke

out in hives. The edges around a deep, colorful bruise — you know, the

yellow parts — that’s where you and I live. I’ve made a home out

of it. Decorated it with the fear I call my sister.

So it goes. I kneel beside you, hoping the smell of me brings you to life. The

smell of wet lavenders in the summer. Your eyes do not open

and I fake surprise. Counterfeit words on a cold night seem to be our pastime.

Prayers will not make the trees know less. They will not turn this golden girl

brown. And your words, no matter how masked they are, will not

change the direction of the wind. This is how the summer dies.

Grace Carson is located in Denver, and is an undergraduate senior and writer at the University of Denver. She is the current executive editor of the Clarion.