was hurrying on my way to something. still,  i took a breath to stand still and listen to the sound of saxophone as it wrapped itself around me.

it was slow, aching, craving- the type of jazz reserved for the moments between dead-of-night and almost-dawn when the syncopation of bodies match that sort of rhythm.

it felt naked and blooming and vulnerable when stretched out in noontime sunlight.

so bloom, baby, bloom.

I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.

– Edna St. Vincent Millay

but oh what a summer i can promise.

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  1. Pingback: For some things, there are no wrong seasons. | rose in midair

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