It was like standing in the middle of an open field on a clear night, trying to hide from the stars. He must have already known what I had done, just like the stars would have seen me all along as I fruitlessly darted and ducked behind fences and bales of hay – and now all I could really do was to march straight up to him and openly reveal my transgression against his loyal love.
The ballerina leapt.
She still couldn’t reach the sky.
I love seeing the moon in the sky during the day.
It reminds me the world is not alone.
Marjorie loves the broad evening sky: a huge, hundred mile canvas of ambrosia, piled massively like a heavenly feast but delicately shaded in purple, grey and blue. She would see more from the balcony, her concrete diving board – but the ground leaps at her like a tiger, murderous and terrifying, whirling and falling and leaping again.
The silence was tangible.
The town slept under the glow of the moon and owls sang lullabies to the trees.
He fell to his knees and they cracked under his weight.
Above him the sky burned on.
How quick the skycotton cloud goes through a relentless remould while retaining it’s totality. How honest the unendomed sky reflects our going of grey-and-gold and life’s futility.