• 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.  


you are  

the artist.

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