A sequence of seeming nothingnesses lasting seemingly short. An illusory irony:
And I sit there, watching the sky invert colours from a clear, pastel blue to a splotchy pink, like it’s reversed itself—inside out. And I know what that sky looks like because whenever this happens, I look at it. And I look at it with the same awe as the time before that.
And I sit there, looking at the crescent in that sky, just a sliver of white, a fraction of the sky, but enough to draw one to it.
And I keep looking. I stare. I stare ‘cause it’s good.
Do I like it? I do. It’s beautiful, so yes, l like it. Now I don’t know if I’m still staring or just lost. I think I /was/ lost. I stare again and it’s gone and I want it back.
(How does one take it all in?)
And I look away and start (resume) thinking about how I‘ve wanted to look at a pink sky.
I think I’ll take it all in the next time I see it.