Despite being born in Sin City, I was raised on I-95, traveling and living in all the states between the Mason Dixon Line and the Florida Everglades, always finding home in a North Carolinian sleepy, coastal town.
We laid silent, sweat-stained skin pressed against the others as we listened to the
rain fall above our whirling heads. Upon my grand exit, my love-struck eyes were
greeted by the sight of the yellow-Cheshire moon hanging over the dew-rinsed
meadow. Always such a beautiful sight to end our love-crazed nights; I stood in awe
of the passion of the evening. Mesmerized by its beauty, I almost missed the sound
the gun made. I turned as the pain struck my back to see blond hair in a tangled
twirl; my last earthly memory, the moon’s grin upon my sinful ways.