terrace barefoot

Photo by Max Harlynking on Unsplash

i pour a glass of orange juice

into my ball-branded jar and i

step onto the terrace barefoot,

the door slightly ajar.

i lean my shoulder against the

wall and register it as tangible

as i let the dewdrops settle in

my hair and inhale crisp

morning air.

it’s cold and i’m crying

and i’m hoping and i’m trying

to feel something emotional so i

start with the physical; the citrus,

the cement, the condensation; i

lament.

i do not wish to be so numb and

to apathy i refuse to succumb so i

shoot a spark through my thumb and

swear that this, i will overcome.

☼