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