Twin Curbside by Mikey Harper (16, Texas)

last week, i sat on the curb between our two houses
i lit a red and thought of
                you and summer and my brother’s crashed car and everything
else that once lived right there where i sat.

---

the air still tasted bitter, like the way you laugh, 
                                my mouth
was stuffed with one june and one storm and a few pulls of smoke
                my tongue could not flesh out the difference between them

the days of you and me are dormant, but so endlessly there –
benign tumors on the streets of what used to be 
                our 
neighborhood.
a crossroads here, now, birthed from
                                the womb of your indifference.
you, in the heat of summer,
warm rain once webbed in your hair
                caught, soaking, candied
or me, purple gums in the grip of winter
                flash, flashing
over the screeching of a familiar tire

you, long gone before my 
                body 
                                slammed
into the window
me, standing still in the wake
                jeans loose, mouth open,
gray tongue

two figures connected still,
                                                                though only by a vice​