by Amber Moss
There’s more to him than his cadaverous skin.
He eats steak with no seasoning,
but sandwiches with hot sauce.
He curses with his parents as they speak their dialogue, and I can’t imagine speaking
to my mother with lines filled with that much color.
When we walk on the beach,
it’s just us two.
The midnight sky collides with the lamps
eluding from the beach houses behind us,
and there’s no one to tell us to come home.
But when we do go home
to his home
to eyes different from mine,
It is 1960 again.
Amber Moss is a writer in New York City. She earned her bachelor's degree from the University of South Florida in professional writing with a minor in creative writing. Her poetry has been published in Bewildering Stories. She has also contributed articles to NYGal and 87 Magazine.