Remember— the long late summer evenings we never spent beside the canals, bicycles not leaned against lampposts still unlit, witbiers with their drizzles of orange never drunk? No. We never sent postcards back home, bright with foreign stamps; never stacked up Polaroids with garish magnets from Munich or Prague, never ran up phone bills with calls lit with tears. I was never there. I gave the best years of my life to a different sorrow, monochrome and beyond redemption. April in London, Christmas in Sydney— it happened somewhere, for someone. Not for us: tender, forgetful, young too late.
Previously published on the author’s website.
Abigail Myers lives on the South Shore of Long Island, New York, where she writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her essays have appeared in the Blackwell Philosophy and Pop Culture series, with a personal essay forthcoming from Phoebe in winter 2023. Her microfiction recently appeared in Heartbalm, and she also has poetry forthcoming from Amethyst Review and Unlimited Literature. You can keep up with her at abigailmyers.com and @abigailmyers (still on Twitter).