There's a fan blowing in the kitchen window that sounds like white noise, catching wisps of my unwashed hair & carrying them across my lips. our cheeks are all burned pink & freckled like constellations in the clear night sky.
its 8 o'clock now, and the sun is still high in the sky, as if willing me to keep pushing the moon away. To keep living today.
There are so many books left to read, naps to take & strawberries to taste. Paintings to paint & poems to write, bookstores to smell & fireflies to catch.
But the sun is setting now,
and for the first time in a while,
I don't want to watch today,
this perfectly imperfect, simple day,
end.
Somehow I've lost my grip on the moon & despite my silent protests, it's falling, and with it, my eyes.
how very summer it is, to enjoy every last golden drop of the day, until the sight of the moon is both sweet & bitter, all at the same time.
No comments:
Post a Comment