Lonesome Loam

It’s in that thick air—you know, the kind you can dip yourself into for a while and feel the muggy energy suspended around you. It’s in the lethargy slipping from your tongue and splashing in your lungs. It’s in the fog creeping between the pines, circling your ankles, and slithering along the waking earth.

It’s nearing that springtime bliss—you know, the kind that holds minuscule sentiments of change within each bundled bud, each new nook of moss, each crystalline spiderweb.

It’s in the promises left in hollowed tree trunks, it’s in the love letters whispered deep into burrows of ivy, it’s in the secrets desperately dug into sodden soil. It’s in the voice you let echo, tumbling over itself in aching fields. It’s in the way your soul reverberates around the caverns found within each dewy droplet. It’s in the worlds that only take shape in soft afternoon light. It’s in the kisses of golden sun on cold cheeks, the tugs of lilting wind in tangled hair, the ghost of fingertips dancing across grass stained kneecaps. It’s in the imaginative haze you’ve shrouded yourself in for far too long—you know, because the mist rolls off your sullen shoulders, soaked and barren, leaving you breathless; all too aware of your own weight pressing into spongy ground.

It’s nearing that springtime bliss when mirrors made of puddling rain remind you of all the rotting promises you left yourself in forgotten hollows so long ago.