Late-evening sun. Orange burning light sparking through the trees. The summer breeze and the branches and the light move together and the air is warm.

Earlier today, I was scratching out to-do lists. Taking breaks to suck down social media. Fused into screens. Opening styrofoam containers with condensation inside the lid. Half-heated and eaten and still screen scrolling, but I’m trying to chew 20 times per bite and drink more water, which will hopefully reinvigorate the brain cells that are wasting away as I browse @theslutwhisperer’s instagram feed. Right? (How did I even get here?)

But tonight, I’m breathing enough. And I am enough. And life is slow and I get to notice it.


The light sinks lower and the fireflies start to wander between the brick streets and the patches of overgrown city grass that my neighbors and I call “front yards”.

A car rolls by, grinding and crunching and bouncing over those bricks, and the windows are rolled down and the music is loud and the air is still warm and I’m still breathing enough.

The metal porch chair is leaving cross-hatched imprints on my mostly-bare legs and if I could retell these moments with a great, scratchy black pen and a blank sheet of paper instead of a screen, I would.

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