to Palm

It rains in darkness; your closet is confused by the changing season and you wonder why you haven't mourned summer yet. (Everything races ahead regardless of if you remember to be sad or not.) Navigate the puddles with a laugh and make mental notes to invest in more appropriate attire, knowing full well it'll be years still before you commit. It always ends, eventually. I stare at his sculpture and marvel that magic flows out of human beings, out of nothing. How we can create worlds and leave someone else different than when they came. Later, in that soft red light, the music buzzing in your fingertips, how when he speaks of play you are exactly 15 years old again at a piano you knew like breathing, 7 and telling stories that never settled on paper but lived between your temples, 11 and painting micro cosmos as the hours while away underneath your thumb. It was a thousand miles away but returned at the turn of a phrase.

I woke with a weight on my forehead but that same feeling in my chest; sunshine returned to the island, summer lingers. There is nothing to mourn.