Sta.sh
The Golden Hour
And so the golden hour begins,
a halo kisses the backs of my hands.
Houses wave to me as I stare out the passenger window,
and I watch him breathe in slow motion on his porch.
Light touches his skin and warms his insides,
Filling even the darkest crevices with warmth.
He must be thinking a million eloquent verses,
Engulfed in orange silence.
I imagine him holding a pen and paper,
I see him gazing into the sun.
It makes his eyes water, but he refuses to look away.
The wind embraces my face as I throw my arms out
just in time to see him one more before he disappears.
All I hear is radio and the rush, all I feel is the glow.
I feel his sunlit smile invading my own expression.
I'm sure he doesn't really write poetry,
but if he did
it'd speak of everything from the feeling of flying,
to the rays of light that softly touch the flowers in my hair.
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