Clouds from above.
10/07/2024
Like a wonderful ocean, textured with calm waves.
But a pond with ripples of joy.
A world-long sea of moving foam, adjacent crashes leave holes to a clear sky.
A stupid beauty building layers of frothy cream, your silly joy infectious, your stern and stiff running allows edible happiness.
I can watch you bave for hours, but tire of your stoic simpleness.
You’re a white clay plain that’s hardened by blades of sun.
You tense when her coquettish breath reaches you, but become hollow with loneliness when she leaves you.
Oh, but how I would love to cup your joy in the scythe that are my hands.
To feel your wet hair round my fingers and nails,
to close my eyes in your embrace.
Oh, what a gift.
What a gift that would be.
I was on a plane back home from visiting my parents when I was possessed with insipration to write.
