On the Walk Home I Kissed Tyrone

and then his phone died. We had no light. I was blind;

the darkness was vengeful, it followed us relently as he

and I stumbled, tripping over ourselves down the brick walkway.

The time was 9:30 and then his phone died, then we had

nothing, and in the absence of light Tyrone turned blind,

I was vengeful, I pushed him away and scraped my heels against

the bricks. The darkness swallowed Tyrone and in his absence

I tripped, my eyes lost their lightness, my phone teetered at the edge

of my pocket. I was born at 9:30 in the morning, I fought my way out

of my mother relentlessly, until finally I stumbled, out of the darkness,

into the nurse’s arms. The only other person who loved me in my

blindness was Tyrone; I owe him an apology, these bricks are sharp,

and when he was born the lights went out, his father’s words were quick,

vengeful, and when Tyrone stumbled into my house this morning,

before we were tripping into the darkness, I giggled, my insides warm

and fuzzy, before putting my number in his phone.


Grace Morse