My Cardboard Balcony

Until Dawn Kisses Us by Belinda Roddie We spill our guts out from bottles, while the moon boasts pumpkin filling, just in time for the glorified autumn season. Fall, fall, fall. When it's dark, everyone can see us. They hear the crunch of summer skeletons beneath our trembling feet. Their phones light up the trees around us. Glow, glow, glow. You and I don't like to sleep much. When the party gets too rowdy, we crawl away from the stain of beer and belches in the corner. Until dawn treats us like lovers, we'll grow sick over our beakers, strike a pose against the hillside, and clink wishes with wishes, extra suds, verbal foam splashing behind our tongues.

He played bass, and she played guitar, and I was always stuck with the tambourine. I could play keys, I'd protest loudly. I could try fiddle or accordion or reeds. I could even kill on the vocals, but no. Little Joanna played the tambourine. Little Joanna always played the tambourine. Even when she was fifteen years old, grungy, and riddled with acne. Like it was even remotely still "cute."