I hate the sunset tonight

Why won't the sky explode in a burst of orange-yellow-red radiance, turning each moment golden? Or fade into lavender laced with blue and whisper-pink, the world muffled and soft around the edges? Why can't I sit on wild grass, barefoot, blueberries tart on my tongue and a laugh bubbling in my throat, and watch this sky, thinking something existential that later I'll try to morph into a poem? I want messy braids down my back and a light smattering of summer freckles on my cheeks and endless days stretched ahead of me, days free of any responsibility. I don't want this studying, this cold, this dreary grey sky that will only turn the palest yellow before surrendering to the deep blue-black of night. And not the kind you can call pretty, not the kind you can romanticize with just the right words. No, this sky is made of headaches and dull pencils and the faintest sense of regret, the sense that I've let too many magical sunset moments slip by. Moments where I can feel the world moving deep within my bones and like I'm letting go of everything, except in the best way possible, until I'm finally whole again. Moments I'll capture in photos but will never truly relive, not until another one comes and I'll run down to the yard to soak up the day's last bit of sun.

I hate the sunset tonight, and so I'll walk for miles and imagine I'm walking into June.