by Haley King
The mirror reflects your gray
eyes and freckled bridge. I can smell the beer on your breath
from your last drink. The one that went to your organs
and they were supposed to heal
themselves as you continued the damage.
The ethanol was broken
down time and time again. That drink led to the bad choice that changed
the date on my calendar from a Thursday to an anniversary.
I won’t pass on the tradition of that September day; it ends
with me. Our final trip in your Dodge through the woods, for a visit
to see what remains. Your cold, gray, stone
and a piece of my name.
Haley King is a current student at Salisbury University, majoring in Biology with a focus in Environmental Biology and a minor in creative writing. Her work dives into the uncomfortable aspects of personal relationships.
Hawaii Pacific Review 