261: Beer-Tinged

You sit in the field behind the house, arms locked around your knees. You are far enough away to see the stars. The moon moves among them as you turn, spinning on your planet's axis. You feel insignificant as you stare up, but it is not a bad feeling; it does not matter what you do, you think. Your planet will go on spinning. The moon will keep moving. The world lies before you.

It is comforting.

Behind you, the backdoor to the kitchen opens. You hear rustling grass and your friend's footsteps. "I wondered where you had hidden yourself," he says. He sits next to you and hands you an unopened can of Pilsner. He opens his own with a fizz. "Thinking again?"

"Something like that." Your can is cold. You wrap your hands around it and peer up at the sky again. The moon is brilliant, rays splattering the grass with silver. It catches in his hair. He looks ageless.

He sips his beer, smiles, and nudges you. "Thinking will give you grey hairs."

You laugh, watching him. The world lies before you. "You could distract me, you know."

He studies you. "I could." He sets his can down.

You have not had a chance to open your own yet, but he leans in still, one hand at the nape of your neck. It does not matter, you realise, and close your eyes. You would rather have this.

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Written by: Katrine Hjulstad

Instagram: @katrinehjulstad

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Publisher's note: All poetry published with Eudaemonia Records has been viewed and commented on by our editors. Ultimately, however, we believe that it is the writer's decision to accept or reject any suggestions made by the editors, and therefore take no responsibility for the final product.