Writing

Your hair danced in the wind

yesterday, and the trees

turned your eyes green.

You took

a photo of me, my skin 

flushed from the fire, my 

eyes closed on accident

and I took one

A day as grey as

the clouds above it

And the hills, which have changed from green to orange to purple to a deepest blue in the fading light

with a few bursts of yellow from the beech trees, holding on in their marcescence

The rain scares me

intimidates me

loud and imposing and looming

often arriving with thunder

lightning

sometimes power outages

The rain comforts me

soft drizzles rinsing out the hardships

My virtual home

where I can make my words dance and no one can change the choreography

where I can be loved by other people like me

where I can realize that I'm not as alone in the world as I originally thought

This is when all my thoughts merge

into one big cloud

chasing me everywhere

demanding things

this is when I answer

when I walk home

when I contemplate reality

life

existence in general

Charcoal 

is our preferred method 

with which to sketch our days 

thick, dark swaths of pigment 

that smear and make their mark 

unapologetically