The stardust in bones
The blades of grass cut through my fingers,
scraping like bone on a chalkboard.
Long days grow longer,
like a Keats sonnet come to life
in the summertime’s furious heat.
Delirious and deliberate, I circle in the sun,
arms outstretched, my head tilted to the ombré sky.
I spin in circles of changing proportions
until my shadow is swallowed by the shade
of the Sycamore trees.
The leaves crunch beneath my feet,
creating a desiccated and delicious aroma
that only comes once a year—
unwavering, unlike your love,
which fluctuates with the tide.
Am I a circle in the sand?
Will I be washed away in time?
Never whole again, as I was in the beginning—
a blank slate lying in wait
until my stars align again.
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