End
Quinn Zeppernick
There was stickiness and there was buzzing of cicadas—
Things we accepted warmly because of our aching for summer being fulfilled.
The sun was perched atop some wilting clouds—still hot and no hint of cooling.
The grass even seemed to sweat—sticky feet bent it backwards
And left a glistening imprint.
We were bruised and we were content.
A day of endless bike riding, endless stickiness and endless sugar.
No boys to scar us—only boys to feverishly talk about.
A day of petty fights—quick laughter to pass the animosity.
A day of chatter—of things we vowed to never do.
But those cicadas’ shells have decayed—
And we do not accept the change with warm hearts.
Rather: we weep with change—we become corpses.
We will reminisce, yes—
But we will weep with change—
The Grief of growing up.
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