Painting Clouds

Pink clouds remind me of you. They remind me of that bright day, when you buried me in your warmth for a good 30 seconds before we said goodbye.

Pink clouds remind me of the nights we spent looking out the glass window; you'd talk about how beautiful the sky is right now and I would marvel. I'd reach for my phone anxiously and take a quick picture. I sink in my emotions when I'm with you.

Pink clouds remind me of the Italian white, puffy clouds you'd tell me about. The renaissance painting-clouds, you'd say. They were magical. So low in the sky that it seemed like you could reach effortlessly and grab them.

Pink clouds remind me of her. They remind me of the days you'd sit in the beautiful gardens in Florence and marvel at the closeness of the beautiful clouds, with her. They remind me of how you'd think of her when you look at the clouds with me.

Pink clouds remind me of her, and how much I no longer cared.

Empty Grip

As I walked into my apartment the sense of dread creeps up my throat and grips my gut. It is not a hyperbole or a metaphor, I thought, when people described fear as gut-gripping. It lingers, as I reassure myself there is nothing to keep my heart racing. I keep company on a small screen as I pace around the apartment, ducking and keeping a sharp eye on everything. Not a second do I let myself trust my judgment. I look and look, but fear lingers.

It lingers and grips on tight.

It wouldn't let loose.

It grips.