We counted bullets and money. Drank warm beer that fizzed sour across our tongues. Lay under wide skies and watched stars fall. You said they were bad souls burning, that I could wish on them.
I wish on one now, my cheek pressed against the bars.
Wonder if it’s yours.
Deborah writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs.
so good! love the subtle twist
Love the imagery and imagination.
Good job – hope it isn’t prophetic
Could feel the steel against my cheek
I adore your work!
That closing moment was subtle and powerful all at once. Gorgeous writing.