Lit

A gray cloud of hope escapes my mouth

It swirls around my head and seeps into my curls

“I want to keep it.” I told my husband.

But he didn’t hear me.

The moon shines down and trees pass us by

“I saw two shooting stars.” He states.

But I’m busy trying to smell the hope in my curls

To see the moon

And to admire the trees

Silence becomes us

But our minds, they’re lit up like Christmas trees

-Saschia

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