We sat on top of a mountain shaped like a molehill and looked over each other’s vistas, you through your lens and me through the soft pink haze of adolescent love. Every time the shutter whirred I wondered what you saw, considered the treachery of images, and shrugged my inner monologue. Every time you paused I scrawled, with shaky butterfly fingers, notes on admiration that read like playground sonnets. I used my pen to stem the pent up and sketch an allegoric sunset, which you drank with our draught and laughed over, wondering that love could be so young.

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