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.