In a humdrum field
life is void of anything but the necessities.
It feels a little bit liminal
How perfect everything is,
But it's also not perfect at all.
The sky is a robins egg in places,
A wonderful blue.
And in others its billowing with pearly regal clouds.
The breeze leads to bumps on my skin.
It all leads to a shiver.
The breeze also pushes and molds the clouds into new things consistently,
The clouds keep my eyes busy
Down on the ground it's so vibrant.
The border of the clearing is popping
Its flowers and leaves
as though taunting the dull grass that grows where nothing beautiful can.
I just realized it contrasts so much compared to the dead field we now sit in.
We.
The other person is not you,
But just another me.
Another feeling.
They go well together, these two feelings.
The feelings are indistinguishable.
That word looks like
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