wait here.

at times, i collapse against the dewy grass of the morning. moisture runs up my backbone as i lazily extend an arm behind my head and contently paint the pink and purples of the sky with my index figer. but the colours i dab against the constant canvas will vanish and be replaced with hues of blue. only then will i contend to sit at the water's edge and skip stones, watching the blue radiate in circles along the wind.
september twelve