An August night. Or maybe it’s July.

In some blissed-out trip and I feel like I could kiss the moon.

But it’s a long fall from the moon; ask anyone who knows. So I stay here on the wet grass, feeling the cold wend around me, binding me to the earth to keep my from my celestial lover.

My lonely, wayward lover. The desire of many, the property of none. I reach so desperately and return with so much less.

But these moments; this bliss, this trip. The grass is cold and I reach again until there’s no more left of me, just my distant lover.

Is it any wonder he provides no warmth; just this vague euphoria and the hope of the journey. A journey oft started but rarely completed; ask anyone who knows.

But why shouldn’t I try for this one chance to get off this grass and into the sky? With so little of me, would it really be that hard?

Then I’m crashing hard, before I’m even halfway there. My lover stays his hand, bitter.

But I should have tried harder, reached further, sooner. I reach again, but there’s nothing left of me.

My lover leaves. And I’m as cold as the grass.

(originally posted on jameshultgren.tumblr.com)