European Life

And I hang on to these imaginary balloons, sun shining through their imaginary red rubber. They lift me to the puffy clouds, white, clean, disappear-able.

I fucked up. There is no better expression for it.

I know why, and within a second he is kissing me, firmly and convinced, on our study break, a brisk sunset, late September, last warm day over. Fingers on my waist, smell of grass, and the smile that sticks to his face. I fucked up.

Does not matter now.