Perspective

It’s dark. The sky is a mixture of deep navy blues and dirt browns. Stars are littered across the sky, Thrown out by passersbys unnoticed, Impossible to see without looking. I am sitting on a swing. There is no one in this park except me, And it’s just barely sprinkling: The first instances of a storm incoming. My eyes are on the dirt below the swing. My feet move back and forth, creating An ugly pile of misplaced soil that would Otherwise have been smooth. My eyes feel wet. I can’t tell if it’s the rain, or if it’s me, or if it’s my hair, soaking from the heavy showers that happened earlier. You walk in. You are standing behind the swingset From a comfortable distance, staring At my back as I look into the soil, Sitting on the swing, unmoving. Hair soaked, eyes wet, and unmoving. You stand still for a bit. You can imagine the sounds the swing Would be making if I were moving. But it’s just echoes of the children Who were there yesterday. Happy, hair dry, eyes glistening, running. Then me, Hair soaked, eyes wet, and unmoving. You walk away.