August 7th.

Sometimes you are all too much and sometimes you aren’t nearly enough. Some days I feel you in the sun, playing off my bare feet in the grass and sifting through the slits in my sunglasses, reminding me you are all consuming and able. Intentional and detailed. Immaculate and infinite.

I sit here now, with my hips nestled between the arms  of a red lawn chair, admiring the warmth and solitude this moment offers. You must be here. You must be sitting beside me in the chair to my right, watching me write, nudging me on.

What are you saying now. What do you want me to know. What do you want me to see.

-b

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