
Flux Magazine
"Our Little Sky" by Cristian Tamayo
Parked cars line the road.
All empty inside.
Gleaming in the light.
The heat coming
off the hood
visible and rising.
I throw my jacket up
on the rooftop of the Jeep.
“So, you don’t burn your butt.”
You laugh while your bare feet
dig into my shoulders and
you’re pressing down hard on
my head with your hand.
“Don’t look up – yet.”
I feel you
hike up your
summer dress.
I toss the bag
full of food up
before following suit.
“You’re making the whole thing move.”
The car shifts,
giving in just a bit,
or perhaps it’s the world
that seems to be shifting.
You go for the Hot Cheetos
and I crack open
a bottle of root beer.
You’re already licking
your fingers before you
shake the bag toward me.
“We still have a few minutes before it sets.”
You lean your body into mine and smile.
Red and orange flames
streak and stain the sky
almost like you
reached out and painted it
with your fingertips.
“Look at that.”
All this time,
I thought
you were
the art.
But,
you are
the artist.