Dear Miss Colloquial Desastre,
Sunsets are easy and rain is all but a joke now. The stars are splitting atoms like we split the check. I’ve fallen on my dirt in so many ways, like into a lover’s arms, like you into a hammock, like a leaf on the wind, like a hammer on a nail. Falling still, why look down, why brace, reach for the crater. The wandering cat with the bell around his neck, he waltzes atop a brick wall. He pauses before jumping to the other side, to presumably feast, and glares at me. Then I get overwhelmed with indignation and apathy for the downfall of my once calibrated sympathy. I’m left destroyed but still wondering, Why bother with the genuine article if you’ve already acclimated and settled for the knock-off? Knowing there are still so many other ways I can fall on my dirt is the only thing bringing me back up. Sunsets are easy.
Keep washing your evening with palm trees and godspeed.