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You and I ran as the sun ballooned, beyond our reach. Our own limbs could never stretch that far, but we dreamt that we sailed in cadence with the beams. We swung, high and low, out of sync. When the tips of your white shoes bumped against the edge of the tilting sky, you forgot about me and my long gaze, rooted on the round green earth. As the stratus clouds thickened, you grew bored. When you told me you wanted to jump, I clung to your hand, but you let go. You made up your mind and flew without me. So, you came down, your knees grated by the sand. Now together we huddle, and with your sweet head in my lap, I tell you the truth. I don’t know how to overcome the pain.
Robin Bissett is a fiction writer, editor, and teacher from West Texas. She is an alumna of the International Writing Program Summer Institute. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions.
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