Infinite

Infinity equals two graduates and one hundred seventy five grams. Their imposter marching band mans our field, their parents are permanent tenants that rent our stands. I remember thinking high schoolers get younger every summer. Strange, their present is our past two weeks former, but some sonorous sights are familiar foreigners, echoed brass booms of hollow air made full. I remember knowing their band was mint, but we were golden and we were infinite in that dimly lit bowl. I remember feeling their gaze on our smooth lazy throws, their elderly envy of our

youth. The frisbee flew from the hand of a graduate, a highlit dove scattering moths and bats, impossible streaking satellite or startrail, shooting, sprinting, shining, brightening the sky and blinding the stars. I remember head down, fleet, burn, my feet churn chase the disc but he calls “short, short” - turn, about face to see it fall back down to mortal curve of earth. Surely, it was too long, and had already belted the world. I remember growing to face the impossibility of our mortality under the eyes of our replacements.