Rosewood By Avery Myers


I work nights now, but sometimes I can still feel 6am beneath your roof –
eggs. tea. spilled coffee. ripped jeans and scattered freckles.
It’s still cold out, but the fingers of morning run over your windows, tumbling through shadows; eerie-eyed sidewalks outside.

I wish I can tell you that things work out,
even if they’re chiseled and broken,
but I say “can I come back in two days?”,
in the ringing silence of every single sunrise we watched from dusty, foggy rooftops.

The neighborhood buzzes – the town is like wildfire, creaking like our bicycle spokes and the dock a mile behind the ice cream shop. You sigh, out of breath, and I grin.

Now there’s pollen on the shingles of your roof, and your guitar is so far out of tune, but those are the least of our problems. March’s soft winds feel like a sadness in your town, rosy in the humid afternoon.

By Avery Myers


Born and raised in a perpetual Indian summer, Avery Myers is a writer and restless traveler who works and plays on the East Coast of the USA. She is the executive editor of -Ology Journal, a safe harbor, independent zine for emerging and unpublished creative people. Avery is a featured traveler on Passion Passport, and her writing has been published by several websites, journals, and university zines.

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