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Summary
He wrote a shitty poem, or the start of one, forever ago. Crave, that’s what he called it at first. Now it goes nameless, having evolved so many times since its origin. Something about hazel eyes that look green on a Summer’s day, something Shakespearean, something about tan skin against fields with friends scavenging for radio waves, and being so loved by so many people that it renders you unkind. Something about bread, breaking bread, olive oil, and olive branch.
Or,
Mike and Will, thirteen years later.
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Bookmark Notes:
Ughhhhhh I could really use a free bag of chipssssuhhhhhhhh (update) right now......... 👀👀