It is twilight, in the sense
that there is no
Day or Night; only
the fluttering of wings.
Being kissed awake
is tender as birth
is confusing. There is no
separation; only
the fluttering of wings.
In the twilight we dress; our
distance from strangers
is that of the first hour
from the twelfth.
The airport menaces two more
hours from our hands,
and I, bitter, learn goodbye
is not nearly as ugly
as goodmorning.
Ingrid Belcher (she/her) is a College second-year from Houston, Texas. She intends to major in Creative Writing and likes to sketch and paint in her spare time.
