Shrinking Skies

May 20, 2010
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Sometimes the sky shrinks so small, I fear the ground beneath me will slip away too. I cling on to the sides of my porch until the sunset arrives, and I count each color as it breaks and crashes into the rest of the universe. My hair is always in my face, no matter what I do with it. No matter where my eyes stray, I cannot find you between the trees in my backyard and it makes me sad. I think about when the heat rose up from the uncut grass and we’d lay a blanket back there. It was before the trees had fallen and pummeled towards the end of their worlds. We thought of the time apart as a cozy blanket: time to dream and sleep and anticipate. But our blanket had been woven with threads that were now pulling apart at the seams. It’s barely enough to keep me covered and night and you’ve hushed my dreams for the mean time. I never sit in that backyard anymore, but I’ll look out that window. I only do so when it’s dark until I cannot see the reflection of my own face. Because even that has changed too.

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