Lochlan's hair is already rose gold. Thank you, summer, for making him glow. The chlorine just hastens the reaction and yet somehow he is as pale as ever because he doesn't suffer the first half of the summer sunburns in exchange for a tan that would last until Halloween these days.
We've grown old. Or maybe we've grown smart. We've grown. Gone is the living on candy, running til dark, filled up on doubtful fierce love and in its' place a better diet, marginally more sleep and a comfortable, secure love that I don't think I'd trade for anything.
We still fight over what kind of ketchup to buy at the store. Don't get me wrong. And he insists a hot dog is best wrapped in a piece of staleish bread, burnt on a charcoal grill while I've moved on to only liking them if they're seared bratwurst in a fresh sesame-parmesan bun with raw onions, sauerkraut and a second-tier mustard.
That level of elitism means no goodnight kiss for you.
The pompousness of it?
Naw, the onions.
We've grown old. Or maybe we've grown smart. We've grown. Gone is the living on candy, running til dark, filled up on doubtful fierce love and in its' place a better diet, marginally more sleep and a comfortable, secure love that I don't think I'd trade for anything.
We still fight over what kind of ketchup to buy at the store. Don't get me wrong. And he insists a hot dog is best wrapped in a piece of staleish bread, burnt on a charcoal grill while I've moved on to only liking them if they're seared bratwurst in a fresh sesame-parmesan bun with raw onions, sauerkraut and a second-tier mustard.
That level of elitism means no goodnight kiss for you.
The pompousness of it?
Naw, the onions.