she starts fires in my dreams

by Rachel Lynch in


each evening is very thirsty. fluttering, daylight fades, remembering when nightfall exposed us to the gray subconscious. contact is made. summer nights are an alternate kind of dark. a deeper sort of dark, a more restful and restless sort of wandering. the dark is enticing when you're aimless. when the sun sets but the temperature rises and you've got no where to go and no one to be. you don't have to look outside for anything because the night has made you a warrior in your own right. a being devoid of need and error. we all are passengers in a long, warm drive. the windows are down, but we are too busy to enjoy its natural splendor.

i wander around, talking to many but relating to few. no one deserves to know me and i don't deserve to know them. poor creatures, waking up with ashes in their hands. because that's what I would want for them. It changes, it does not die.