The air feels heavy...
slightly dewey; and
the sky is puffy-faced -
white, sticky and sickly
like an overstuffed,
sugar-laden child.
Where is my sunshine?
My solid, reassuring
warm air scented with
sweet flowers? Where
is my answer, my sureness,
my salvation?
Expectation is always
dangerous; sort of like
a squatting imp with fat
cheeks and hairy legs,
waiting to yank the floor
away so you fall, hitting hard.
You were supposed to
rescue me, May: A soft landing
and new promise, gently drifting
like festival music across
my face, whispering triumph.
The imp smirks,
gets ready to pull...
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