Forty-five down the parkway.
Windows down,
76 degrees,
And the smell of rain.
Humidity,
Wet earth,
Flowing through the windows
And down my throat,
Through my lungs,
Into my bloodstream and
Blanketing itself around my brain.
Nostalgia is my drug of choice.
Beauty doesn’t come
In forms of days like these
Too often.
Jun 3, 2019
Jun 3, 2019 at 10:18 AM UTC
Forty-five down the parkway.
Windows down,
76 degrees,
And the smell of rain.
Humidity,
Wet earth,
Flowing through the windows
And down my throat,
Through my lungs,
Into my bloodstream and
Blanketing itself around my brain.
Nostalgia is my drug of choice.
Beauty doesn’t come
In forms of days like these
Too often.