Katrina Kaye
the girl meanders through golden hills
at the magic hour in July. She is falling in love with a boy
she met earlier that day, and there is a song playing,
familiar, yet the words are all new.
It’s all an illusion,
an ideal frozen to canvas with acyclic and water
pressed into an idea of perfection.
The playful daydreams of a California girl who
only knew what she didn’t want
but doesn’t know the words for what she does.
And here I am,
at 7:51 pm on a Thursday
practicing saying I am what I am and that is enough.
As if I don’t have better things to say in my sleep.
As if speaking the words made them true.
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