Grass Stains

The mosquitoes outnumber us: there seems to be nothing better to do than have a foot race. Space satellites & airplanes alike twinkle approval as we careen down the hill. A sound I’ve never heard before escapes your mouth: something almost like joy, but not quite. My arm grazes yours as we barrel toward an imaginary finish line. You & I are in a good place these days, I think. To pass the time, we explode like supernovas. We howl just to hear a familiar noise. Legs churning, we trample the dying lawn unloved by summer’s heat, grass reluctant to try growing anymore. Half-crumpled hydrangeas line the final stretch of our makeshift course, the blurry moon above us casting a dim spotlight on one last display of teenage self-importance. Your crew socks are stained a murky yellow-green, flecks of mud outlining your Achilles tendons. For as long as I’ll know you, they’ll never be fully white again. I beat you to the fence by a half-step––an instant, & you’re next to me. It was a tie! I say to nobody in particular, & collapse into the grass. The world is quiet except for the sound of us: breathing the same warm air, squinting at the same tired stars.