measure

I squint. Look at it closely. From afar. Put some distance between me and it. Then close up. As close as I can get. I squat. From the left maybe. Then right.

How big is it? How tall? How heavy? How wide?

Sometimes light as a feather. Sometimes a stone. At times cold, at times warm. Maybe fluid. Maybe solid.

I realise some things can’t be measured. They just feel like a perfect fit.

onomatopoeia

It’s a low sound, like a rumble, the flutter of thousands of wings flocking together like dark waves across the dusky skies. I like to imagine those waves inside your heart as I lay my head on your chest at night.

Their movements like an avalanche, individual particles linked to their closest neighbours. It’s not by design, and it’s not coincidental. A fleeting moment, maybe seconds or maybe minutes. You can only hope it lasts for a little while longer.

I’m in a daze, struck by the way the world can be so beautiful. And that’s enough.