An Isolated Moment

by Carlie Gaush

I sit

tense back touches

cold chair

sweat-damp shirt

six feet

from my best friend

I stare

into the

distance

between us

notice

around me

the thrum

of

cicadas

birds in trees

crickets

box unit ACs

the hush

of

conversations

muffled by cloth

wind

through leaves

the remnants

of

lemon drops

against my tongue

lies I told myself

this morning

the spiraling

of

thoughts

into worries and

a squirrel running

around a tree

the exhaustion

of

two weeks wondering

what if or how about and if that but could this

never knowing what the next day brings

tired nights ruminating

if only I had or maybe if we all and can I but what if no one

never knowing what anyone should do

the stillness

of

grass with no feet

(empty spaces, empty places)

my best friend’s eyes

unfocused

the racing

of

students' cars

too fast

over speed bumps

my heart in

my chest

my hands

my arms

my stomach

my legs

my feet

my—

I exhale

a shaky breath

a question to a friend

through cloth

“dinner?”

I accept

no walking

shoulder

to shoulder

only space

Carlie Gaush is a senior English literature and American history double major from Reading, Pennsylvania. She is the senior editor of Pitch. She can be found in Hartzel Hall, the Marcia Walsh Alumnae Museum, or getting bubble tea.