Sometimes I wish I could have you smell my sheets. My fresh laundry. Have you feel the cold of an early autumn sundown, that carries away the dust of an unforgiving summer. That ran. That stumbled. Picked up again and got lost in the void.
Sometimes I wonder how you can feel claustrophobic on a planet so vast, so soothing, so forgiving.
Sometimes I wonder of the boundaries in our heads and minds surpass the boundaries of the self.
Sometimes waiting means recalibrating your perception of time to make it more bearable.
The heat of the summer, the cold of the winter the long nature nights, the rain, the blossom the bloom. It doesn’t wait for us. Do we wait for it?
Or is it just the disappointment of its departure we cling onto so much. Or the anticipation of its arrival.
Sometimes I wish you could smell my sheets. On a brisk autumn afternoon with dimmed lights and silence. It waits for you. Tirelessly.
Sometimes I wonder if time passes or we make it pass.
Either way. It ran. It stumbled. Picked up again. And got lost in the void.