too bright blue skies and artificially grey tarmac remind me
of a burst of colour world tinted sepia in a photograph
placed upon your shelf in the hopes it'll mean something—
anything.

i am not sure if i remember what it is like
to soar along clouds, gliding over them,
feet covered in rosy pink ballet slippers that make me
float.

i am not sure if i remember what it is like
to dream, to wish, to hope with a feather in your heart,
fluttering so delicately in the soft spring breeze,
like white dresses and clouds and pockets of
dreams.

and that burst of colour world tinted sepia in a photograph
has faded to the dull yellowbrown shade that should be attractive
but in reality
is not.

- we will soon be mere blackandwhite pictures on a forgotten shelf
suspended forever in the golden frame of time.


summary from emily dickinson.
27.8