Compartments

Ancient History

The wind on the moon

Composed by me at age 15, remembered because I didn’t burn it:

A shift, a thrust,
rockets me to the crest.

The moon is so cold,
the wind numbs my chest.

I throw myself
to the immortal stone sea.

All I want is
for you to follow me.

The passion. The pain. The pimples. The ridiculous notion the moon is wind-swept and a good location for a romantic encounter with a 15-year-old boy.

I wrote about my teenaged diary and how Aidan is just beginning to write in hers. The post is over at Mile High Mamas.

Go say hello.

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