if i thought there would be enough sunsets

peachy pink baths and twilight friction

then maybe i wouldn’t be frozen now.

if that orangey milk could navigate the twisted time belt

and swallow me in the here and now

maybe it would melt me, maybe it would warm me

maybe i would laugh and see the wonders

of the cosmic radiance.

sunsets, though, are not enough

and hope—

it is an idealogical phantom, as love or fear,

it’s as real as you need—as real as you believe

until you run your fingers through it

and all that’s there

is mist.