Regina Saxony

The lights streak the desolate night. Strokes of the smoke trails taunt the eye with what was. Somehow, it ceased to amaze us all, the perfection of that eve, that May after that lengthy winter spent in each other arms, in each other’s line of sight. They said that winter was the time that the old faded away and simply died like the leaves that shed from the branches. They said that winter was the season of bereavement and utter depression, that happiness was swept away by those whiteout winds and the gregariously crisp mornings. They said a lot of things we disregarded. But as we commune on this woven blanket it only becomes apparent that we’re all a basket weave of the things that made us and broke us and the insecurity that makes us, us.

And if that isn’t humanity, than this isn’t June and our lives aren’t falling apart.