requiem

and maybe this is the way the story is supposed to end. something about a whimper instead of a bang.

i thought so too when I looked out my window across the pink ocean.

i sat out on the roof until i could feel the asphalt clinging to my cotton socks like baby's hands.

and the mill drones on outside my window, all through the day and night until i can't hear it anymore. all i hear are thoughts like droning.

and the picture frames on my window sill look dusty and forgotten. have i thought about these people in months?
and i'm eight-years-old-and-five-months sitting on my mom's lap with short blonde hair floating in my space like it's weightless.

but i'm not eight or eight-and-five-months, and i can't sit on mommy's lap, and home is a place that maybe never existed.

but the ocean is still pink while the sun remains above the mountains.