Astroid Kid

The end of August is thick with heat and childhood memories.

And a stretching sun that traces the salty waves of our spines, tattooing us with warm and soaking up wet footprints on blacktop.

The summer air's as thick as silence in wartime. When infantry was neon and Nerf.

Skylines sticky, vibrating with heat. until that dying sun sank red and we poured ourselves into nighttime.

"See the fireflies," my imagination would say,

"Pretend they are the stars. And this darkness is the entirety of the universe. And each silent burst of light is a burning galaxy.And you are here just to be. Just to breath."

Until age roused us from our bed of flowers and set fire to our fields of vision- now burning with nostalgia.

I love my mountain bike because it takes me back to when the world would suddenly stop spinning. And everything would smell like summer. And dirt. And skinned knees.

tall tales from an astroid kid