Mild, summer evenings
Bring bubbles of joy and chaos
That float like pink clouds
Across dying grass
In a rush we talk over
One another
Not because we’re not listening
But because we’re trying
To steal extra minutes
From a waning day
Who’s jewel bright light filters through fluttering green leaves
“Hurry,” it whispers. “The day will soon sleep.”
So we spill our stories
Incomplete as the broken light
Their shards reflecting our smiles.
Hipstory 