the bitter taste of coffee on my tongue.
leaves turned golden-brown in the afternoon light.
rosy cheeks, warm from the fire. cracked wide open. grinning.
the tightness in my chest- the one that threatens to undo itself. reminding me that i’m limited even in this. and that’s okay, because i’m here and i’m living and i’m human. overwhelmingly human.
the road rolling open before us like a red carpet. a river of grey carrying us anywhere.
i wish you were here, but don’t tell anyone
the unread pages of a novel. a promise
sometimes i think you were the story, and i was the pen
i exhale and let go
and we begin
By Ellen Vigus