The Island

We sat in silence as the argument ensued. Our blank, innocent stares offered protection and ignorance. We were neither present nor absent in a room fueled by responsibility and lack thereof. Your subtle nod was sufficient. Time to leave. So, we ran past the scattered oaks and deserted bird fountains to our place. We pretended to be pirates atop the run-down trampoline—our very own Jackson’s Island. After a while, we became immune to the rubber scent. You looked back at the house with a feeling of uncertainty, yet necessity. Our escapist ways must come to an end. Time to leave.

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