Broad sun-stoned beaches.
White heat.
A green river.
A bridge,
scorched yellow palms
from the summer-sleeping house
drowsing through August.
Days I have held,
days I have lost,
days that outgrow, like daughters,
my harbouring arms.
When did I become so mournful for the past? I feel like it started a few years ago after I moved to Boston. Everything I talk about now is "Remember that time..." or "That's the place where..."
It's sad because I can never go back there but it's also sad because I feel like I'm almost ignoring the present. Like why am I looking back on my life so early in my life? I should still be living it not already reminiscing!
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