sunset the table
i’m looking across
a creaking picnic table, made of
dry salty driftwood and rusty snails.
and it may be
the same one you are
sitting on,
worlds away.
and we may both gaze into the same
lavender feathered sky, and
soon, these tangerine smothered skies will
be squeezed
and tonight shall burst
the sun into a series of
ocean blues and cloudy grays,
withering citrus senses to fade.
you’ve may have shed too
oh so gently,
whenever we swayed-
slowly,
towards time.
we may be drifting-
worlds away.
but we’re actually just-
sun setting the table,
for tomorrow’s sun rise.
