62 words: Letter Home

Camp was only for the summer but it felt like longer. It was too hot but we touched anyway: lightly, without fuss. We swam and ate hotdogs (slightly burnt), and pretended that back home didn’t exist. If there was a lesson in the stars, we didn’t see it. We simply found happiness in the streams, the fire, a small patch of shade.

 

Listening to Childish Gambino’s Camp for the millionth time because it’s summer and it’s necessary. 

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