the bottom of the earth to clear skies

like a record player that breaks, i’m talking seasons, i’m spitting out winter on repeat; the rubbing alcohol on my fingers, the unapologetic sickness that takes over, arriving without preparation, making a splash, like the last person you want to encounter in a restaurant or at a movie theatre, or anywhere, really.

vulnerable thoughts, anxious thoughts, lonely thoughts, they can all expel with the raw bitterness outside and the bad timing. they can all disappear on the last flight to south carolina, to charleston; they can all wither away in a palm tree breeze, a sun-kissed pier, a pastel town with ocean vistas, tropical drinks, and clarity.

i know i always cry for spring right about now, this is nothing new, nothing revelatory. but i suppose these words are new, still, and for every new word i type, i think of the transition, from black and white to color, from the bottom of the earth to clear skies.

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