By Emily Pierce
The grass on the hilltop bids me sweet goodbye as I run to you— what looks like you—, swaying back and forth like in Japanese films. My shirt billows a little behind me while you take my picture; we laugh when the wind steals your straw boater as fare. The beach shines green under my bare feet- our own little Innisfree.
For a small eternity, I stand at the ocean’s edge and think about dead writers. When it’s time to turn back to you I pick up a handful of sand and hold it to my chest; your eyes crinkle in a rare smile. Olivine, you say, and I repeat it in my head until it sticks.
Emily Pierce is pursuing a bachelor’s degree in English at Radford University. Some of her work can be found in Hypertrophic Literary, Scrittura Magazine, and other publications. She lives in Virginia with a tiny rabbit.
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