I watch the sky slowly crush the last iotas of daylight. I can still feel the latest hour's worth of sun bake into my bones, and sear images of dying clouds into the bellies of my eyelids. There is a yearning I cannot touch, a raging urge I cannot grasp, to hold onto the colors spilling across the canvas above us for one minute longer.
Dissolution. It comes like a rush of ocean spray, like a frothing swell of foam and bubbling memories. They surface in a mess of cohesion before fading in the next instant. Like a thunderclap, or a blink of lightning. No rain will bring them back, not even a deluge could resurrect that which we've lost to the pall of night.
It falls as I did, what feels like eons ago, for dusk and its intoxicating palette. Only it falls with less mercy, and from its unburdened bosom spew all the devilry we have suppressed during the day. I'd like to believe that, somewhere along the road of tomorrow, yesterday's grisly remains of my floral hopes and wooded dreams act as a reminder to passersby not to give up.
Not to surrender to that untimely abyss.