from January.
hoping is futile —
doing the rest of the laundry
and airing it out on a late night,
blended stardust pouring in,
a soul grasping blindly in a dark room,
artwork abandoned.
it is poetry
and words, and music,
drink, sandy shoes, and moonlight pouring into two-thirty,
creeping past the glare of the sodium lamps standing guard,
etching memories onto the sidewalk,
carving a home in sixteen, seventeen.
it is romanticism,
fairytales, happy endings, and a good bedtime story —
back alley chasing, coffee store daydreaming,
door opening, slight breeze pouring in,
tired pastels coloring the afternoon.
it goes to print.
when the most important moment comes,
it hovers in the air,
flitters there, for a second —
a speck of dust, or,
an infinity quite like nothing —
so very beautiful, so delicate,
gone before you know.