Over northern hills ink clouds stain a perfect blue.
They grow dark and slow as the sorrows of others.
The full moon, a young girl in love glowing golden, illuminates all.
Roses dip on warm, motionless thought.
The way the seconds talk, the way the night settles deeper into itself
As if there were nothing else.
The way light turns purple, and the birth of stars.
This house, this little house creaks, its clocks tick on.
One or two slow flies spin the edge of rooms.
Little cat settles at the window; her white paws.
Words disappear.
—
simonhlilly 