This morning, I watched the sunrise from the window ledge

in Yuma, Arizona.

Face pressed to the camera,

50mm lens pressed against a window,

I click a few times to embed this morning, this sun

all its phases, in my eyes.

Red-orange beams glow around silhouettes of palm trees

thick aroma of Seattle's Best are just a few notes

on why I pursue this state as my home,

very soon.

 

 

I spent most of that morning

looking out upon mountain sihlouettes,

-amethyst and indigo in their steadfast presence-

writing and telling myself that a year

will

go fast, faster than I could imagine.

I told myself over and over again

like a mother tells her baby:

everything will be okay.

 

My shoulders ache from

my troubled thoughts rotating

over the rising steam of coffee.

A sip, a hot touch to my lips,

helps me rejoin the present moment

instead of tossing my energy

into the far-off

days, months, year ahead.

 

But some morning, 12 months from now,

it'll all be over. 

The year of waiting, 

between time zones.

There will be no more

goodbyes.

Only hello.