Greg Allan

Perhaps it’s a little premature to be thinking this way. A mid-twenties thinking it’s only going downhill? When the thirties are supposed to be the new twenties? How novel. But then again, not really. 

But I’m not there anymore. I left the palms behind.

Your hair, strands sitting lazily across your face. The smell of the BBQ, blurring the space between us as it becomes part of the summer heat.

Our lives captured in single moments. But it told the story of the last four years better than we could.

You are too close for me to see clearly. But it’s best that way.

You’d fall back down to earth and adjust your glance to me. And whatever was there just moments before glazed over. You locked it away.