Ode to Indigo Jasmine Reyes
I recall warm night breezes, how easily the scent of rich soil soaked into my taut skin. White oak leaves tickled the back of my neck, glistening in its season, that just-touched pink skin shone in the springtime. But it hasn’t been spring for years. No, the indigo blush under my fingernails whispers it is another winter. Impish thumbs twiddle in my lap, but I am worn now, ashen skin matted. Stretched full over scraping bones, echoing in the wind like empty hung bottles.
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