sunset

 now, 

the clouds are like someone painted them with a loose paintbrush. 

a tiny stretch of smoke left by an airplane, behind that darker cloud that is shaped like a secret, glows pink orange speaking of a set sun.

sunset. loving someone who is dying inside - i wrote, as a response to the seven word story challenge. 

but this is gone now. done. 

those, who have loved and lost watch the dance of swifts filled with awe. 

the blue of the evening sky is still too light, only here and there a hint of violet. the dark will come. paintings waiting to be completed.

but when is done really done? you ask. i sigh. i have lost sight of the endings. they curl around my ankles like a sagging mess of underwear, transforming into hapless creatures, small snakes, snapping, wiggling, urging each other in confusion. 

unfurled.