On my left, the full moon cuts through the morning lavender sky
like a white razor on blue veins,
like a pale fingernail on cold lips,
like a perfect circle rubbed onto a fogged-over, wet window with a thumb.
On my right the sun is rising with angry shyness,
peach, magenta, ruby, pink atop the light teal horizon.
Like a red-haired girl blushing,
like the color I dyed my hair a couple days ago,
like maybe whatever god is giving me a smile or a wink
because I didn't want to get up this morning.
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 11:42 PM UTC
On my left, the full moon cuts through the morning lavender sky
like a white razor on blue veins,
like a pale fingernail on cold lips,
like a perfect circle rubbed onto a fogged-over, wet window with a thumb.
On my right the sun is rising with angry shyness,
peach, magenta, ruby, pink atop the light teal horizon.
Like a red-haired girl blushing,
like the color I dyed my hair a couple days ago,
like maybe whatever god is giving me a smile or a wink
because I didn't want to get up this morning.
-- writing about the bus again
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