daynabhattiroberts.blog

there is something forbidden and fatalist in my preemptive nostalgia 

see; those birds above will die by fall or they will fly south to do so 

see; those gray-haired summer chasers will do the same but go west 

and i? i will go somewhere colder 

i will go somewhere i cannot imagine summer growing in no matter the lingering heat that turns september sticky in our cheap paint chipping, led driven, proximity drunken house 

see; i call it a house not a home because i imagine home to be immovable and breathing 

no — i won’t explain more. you must find what home is to you 

and, anyways, now is summer — fickle summer, immobile summer 

now is the time to freeze despite — no, in spite of the heat 

now is the time to look up at those birds and try your hardest not to wonder where last their wings will beat this tepid, gold drenched air

or perhaps try your hardest to figure out just that 

is anything how you expect it or is it always less or more? 

like your first breath — like dying 

if you could remember either; 

which would feel closest to flying?