We’re swinging interlaced
fingers as we march past monuments 
and museums, pretending to stop

and look, I catch your eye 
instead. We paint our initials in indigo 
streaks on rocks we stole
from Olive Garden. Your finger 

traces the scars on my thigh and I
whisper you their origins. Time
pretends to stop, don’t believe

it. Tomorrow, you’ll head 
back on Route 50 and I will press 
the flowers you gave me, so they
don’t seem dead.

Poem by Julia Shorr

Photo by Adam Strong

Julia Schorr has a BA in psychology from Salisbury University. Her poetry has appeared in The Shore Poetry and The Allegheny Review. She currently works at Cornerstone Montgomery as a Supported Employment Specialist and is a reader for Poet Lore. 

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