Night is running towards us.
The sky is done celebrating.
Now it mourns in pain,
With deep, purple bruises resting on its face
And blood streaming over its arms.
How warm it looks.
While our throats frost,
Heaved with cold.
Selfish sky.
Forever unwilling to wrap its warm arms around our bodies.
Unpractical in its ways
But yet so beautiful.
The arrogance strikes us hard,
But we find ourselves too conscious with its loveliness.
And though we sit and stare in cold,
We must know there's something more behind our imperious sky.
-Olivia.
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