Clear, starry nights with no moon, no pollution, and no time I need to get up. The Hawaiian shirt John gave me that’s missing a button right where my gut sticks out, but I wear it anyway. And that one character in Miami Vice who had a bit part, one of the other cops who wore his hair slicked back and Hawaiian shirts like this. Golden leaves shimmer in the breeze like dragon scales. The day extends out, the night short with the urgency of the next one on its heels. I think we make the mistake of not knowing how good we have it and then we miss it when it’s gone. Silhouettes of trees against the failing light and the last birds, different colors before dark, the time of bats, the first stars. What dreams we fall into and from what bedsides we rise. And how I miss the beach, the reassurance of the tide going out like some rhythm of life that we’re all a part of but forget, the relief of letting go of our selves.

Categories: Memoir, microblogging, prose, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, Memoir, prose, stream-of-consciousness, William Pearse writer