I can hear gulls squawking like catcallers in the streets of New York City but they're not talking to me, they're speaking to the ocean breeze. They'll be heading south soon. Fall is coming and you can taste it even in the August heat.
I still have memories of childhood summers that lasted longer than some years recently. Can't help but think of the days I wasted worried about who I would be and now I'm someone sitting beneath a girthy oak tree wearing a collared button up that hangs on me a little too loosely.
I don't know what that means but it may mean something to somebody else who writes love letters to life, that might just double as quiet cries for help in a world so high on noise it's forgotten poetry.
Maybe when the author was writing our story His pen has run out of ink And when he finally got another He already forgot what's next And changed our ending Where you ended up with someone else While I am waiting for you to come back
stars, the softest prints, the watercolours of the night, washed in a rich green sea, shining like prisms, forgetful as the shadows of the moon bold, restful bridge of the tide.