The sky is bleak.

The world, or whatever I see of it,

Is wrapped in muted reds and greens and browns.

 

The ground beneath my feet is soft,

and the air smells like a baby’s skin,

and it is so quiet that I can almost hear the questions I haven’t been asking.

 

I lie down and knead the soil in my fingers,

My nails get coated in grime,

but doing what you’ve forbidden me to do is nonconformity and I like it.

 

I have this moment all to myself,

and I feel the magnitude of the world around me,

of the open space.

 

You appear as if made of smoke,

and lie down beside me.

You don’t say anything, but I don’t mind.

 

There are so many things I want to say,

But I think you already know them all.

We are bound by our silence.

 

I turn my head to look at you,

But you are there no more.

The only mark you have left upon me is your impression in the moist grass.

 

You have left,

freeing me into captivity,

and with you you have taken all the air in my lungs.

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