A Portrait of Sunset


Sunset, February 14, 2017:


A fading tinge of tangerine, splashed across the horizon like a painter’s errant brush stroke, an afterthought of the sunset. A pale, powdery blue, deepening with the fall of night. Bartholomew, on his perch, watching the birds streak across the far horizon, towards places he’s not going.


The stark, lonely branches of a tree, naked now in the depths of winter, and the streetlights flickering on to ward against the coming night.


A faint haze of gold lingering, now, in the twilight, past the chimneys of neighbors we don’t know for all of our closeness, over hill and over dale, fading with every passing minute.


I can’t see the stars from here, but I know they’re there, because they always are, silently eclipsed by the light of our own star, patiently biding their time, waiting for the right moment for the night to be theirs, little time capsules of light from places we’ve never been and aren’t going anytime soon; pick a star – any star, and if I could, I’d take you there.


Heartbreak, acrid and lingering, hanging in the air, a tangible force in the evening light. Another feeling, intangible, lingering just out of reach – it’s the sweetest kind of sadness, succulent and juicy, fresh and full-flavored, tasting of everything I’ve ever lost.


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A poet driven by the quill, a dreamer of impossible dreams, a lover of that which the world has deemed unlovable. We're all stories in the end. This is mine.

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