The light is thin where it drifts through the air and softly sweeps over and leaves shadow smudges in the folds of a soft white blanket. The seconds tap their monotone melody while time, indifferent, flows and falls and flies apart by the tick tick tick tick. Words crowd and jostle in limited space and speak of love and hate and hubris, of a boy who falls and a bird that flies and the sun they long for or come from. The light burns and gives life and drifts lazy through green curtains and kisses shoulders in the summer. Words fill the space, crowd and jostle, leave time behind. Words of feathers and ashes.

Some days I feel like a reflective essay churned out by an overworked coffee-addled brain just before the due date, and some days I feel like poetry itself is whispering lines of rich silver through my life, but today I feel like a novel with a smooth cover and worn pages as someone is just sinking the covers closed with a sigh of recognition at the warmth of the end.