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Someone picked up the sun and pinned it to the sky again, but every day it hangs a little lower than the day before. It’s like a negligent parent who only knows one half of who you are. It never sees how its absence changes people. How different we are in the dark.
My arms ache from the inescapable ice of isolation.
His eyes are 2 buckets of rainwater: deep, fresh, clear.
I step into the slight breeze and clutch a fistful of wind as it weaves its way through my fingers.
Hope is a pocket of possibility.
“Life is a bleak place,” he whispers. “Sometimes you have to learn how to shoot first.”
5 days of summer pressed into 5 fingers writing stories on my body.
