days without coffee
golden and gripping
in the wake of nights late with talking
mist makes morning matter
hills flatter, fatter,
blurs the background like a photograph where you, only you mattered
days of should and shouting, doubting
the grass that should not be blue
the sky that should not be red
bed the only safe space
floating, folding, holding
pillows like life vests pressed lace that patterns your chest
days that saturate, satiate, breed
desire, need, time elegant, elastic, experienced
the sun, delirious
steam rises where crickets dance,
the light fantastic.
EDITOR’S NOTE: This poem was selected from entries submitted to our Creative Challenge Series #39: Last Sentences, which required that the last sentence in the text must be used as given.
