There is a force in the arch of your foot that pushes you forward when you run in the sand,
a steadiness in the eyes that see the sun before it fully shakes the colours of sleep from itself into the sky.
There is reward in the ability to revel in starting the day with eyes a little heavier,
a compromise in times command to be more important than comfort.
There is a depth deeper in the palm that desires the direction of the earth,
a willingness that runs wilder in the palm that awaits the rain.
There is more truth from the tongue that doesn’t twist,
a likeliness of lies from the breath of shallow lungs.
It’s pathetic really. How all I can think of is how your hands felt on my neck, wondering how it felt to be given all that I was giving to you. How I know that fixing a person isn’t about showing them that what they can’t do is possible, but I did it anyway. It’s so sad how people are not really gardens, love does not make them grow. They digest it and use it to fuel themselves forwards but they never learn how to produce it. All I can think about is kissing you and I’m glad I’m not an idiot because holding onto this would have made me more of a failure than letting go, but at least I would be thinking about your mouth with intent instead of regret.
At least I would be thinking about your mouth with intent instead of regret.
You swear that if he stood in the West that’s where the sun would rise. Then you remember that you’re also watching a sunset from the wrong side of the world. Now you wonder if a ball of fire in the sky wants to resign it’s position. You think that if you saw a new colour for the first time it would feel the same as when you saw him for the third, and the thirtieth, and the three-hundredth time. Then you remember that pink used to be your favourite, but now it’s blue. Now you realize it’s not the pigments that have changed, but you. You think about how when the sun sleeps you love red, but when it wakes you love lavender.
I wonder if it’s difficult for the sun to rise every morning, if he has a routine of coffee or a snooze button he allows himself to press only three times. I wonder if he knows how even though there is challenge in change, the sky is so beautiful. And I wonder if he’s still lovers with the moon, or do we only have the night because they grew apart. Is it awkward for him to see her in the sky sometimes before he’s settled for the night? Does he choose the colours he paints the sky with every night?
I wonder if he’s sleeping angry when he set’s bright red.
I wonder if he misses her when he wakes up tangerine.
I worry for the moon, carrying around the weight of the tides. I wonder how she got tied down and if she’s just strong or determined. I worry for all the blame we put on her for our grievances when she’s full, if she’s ever confessed to such mischief or simply never denied the accusations. I wonder if she is vying for the sun’s affections with every wax and wane, trying to please his appetite.
I worry the stars are too far away to be friends.
I worry she can’t see her reflection in the ocean.