by Edgar Canter
Sometimes I think that you would still enjoy the way I used to call you and shout your name like I had won the lottery or the way I used to look into your green eyes, which told me things about love and myself that I had never known. Sometimes I think that you would still like the way I used to comb through your thick hair and push it aside to whisper I love you into your ear with enough force to make you giggle and enough poignancy to make you melt. But now the mountain stands between us, a tall formidable barrier that neither of us has the courage to cross. Love was created by the brave, for the brave. Sometimes I think that you would like to be brave with me again. I could stand to climb such a mountain.
Edgar Canter is a 19-year-old pants-wearing student at Syracuse University. He enjoys fish, phish, and the late 1960s.