(I know this is poetry but I can’t tag poetry so I’m double dipping, wee)
She changes nail polish like she changes
lanes and likes to look for
trapdoors in ordinary objects.
Timeframes of events bother her and
framerate could never be enough
because she just wanted things to start
and continue forever
because stopping scared her
impaired her from believing,
deceiving her into grieving for things that don’t go on and on.
Things always come to an end and that made her feel like the clouds were bright gray even if the night sky was shining
refining her reality with a brutality of the truth, the truth
there is an end to youth
the overwhelming proof
being that sunsets always happen.