walking through clover
thick enough to stain my cuffs.
It never learned my name.
The air feels like too much,
sweet and careless,
stuffed with honeysuckle
and soft light.
My heart can’t hold it all,
like I’ve won the lottery.
Death walks beside me,
slow, patient,
hands in pockets,
whistling something,
like it’s got nowhere better to be.
He doesn’t speak,
doesn’t judge,
just moves through the sweetness,
like it’s all old hat.
The sky cracks open,
orange spilling into pink,
so loud it makes my head spin.
I try to drink it in,
my hands shaking,
like I’m trying
to hold a fistful
of clouds.
Every step feels borrowed,
like I’ve got too much
and not enough
all at once.
So I keep moving,
feet pressed into the dirt,
hands tasting the wind,
heart too full for my own good.
I know it won’t last.
I know the colors,
the smell of clover
and soft light
will slip through my fingers.
And still, I walk,
eyes wide,
drunk on everything,
because there’s no other way.