Lit, Lit Poetry, Uncategorized

Figs and the Pines by Romeo

Romeo is sixteen years old and from Australia.

“i wish i knew where you came from.”

that was haze. her.

where, of any place i had been where freedom was even a viable option, could such a place be considered my home? there was a quiet turbulence in all who passed my way, including all of the dirt trails i had left behind in the wake of those who stayed and left for a nebulous time. 

“jesus. the cold is biting my skin.”

my blatant dismissiveness did not lead the husk of my momentary friend astray, nor did she care to comment.

“fuck it. where to next?”

gone.