singing palm

the air was crisp but warm. indian summer they call it maybe? i’m pretty sure it’s indian summer but it wasn’t summer at all. it was spring. well at least in terms of what spring is, after winter. the season of bloom. the sky was clear and filled with a thousand stars. i could have counted the stars with you all night. i was mad about what i was wearing but you would never know or care. but then again maybe you would, because you appreciate things like that. nonetheless, i’ve always felt your adoration, even in my sweats. i felt like a child, a happy one, as i slapped your hand and you kissed my nose. i couldn’t possibly be awake, not with this magic. i felt wildly insecure, and i told you. there’s so many beautiful girls, i said, but you’re my brown eyed girl, you said.

you see, life is full of these tiny moments that make make this one colossal moment. but sometimes after that, thats all it was. a moment. never to be repeated except for in the quiet cerebral parts of your mind. where maybe you made that moment more than it was. they say that a memory is only a remembrance of the last time your brain visited that site, changing its tiny surroundings and details each time.

i told you i’d leave you, you begged me not to. the moment i might have imagined, where you fought to keep me. but these moments i see, have you staring at him like he’s your understudy. nonetheless, you kissed me like you loved me, in that indian summer air, where the palms sang a lullaby, under the clear star ridden sky.