Bug in a Jar

I could look at the sky for hours. Melting colors, brash and fluid strokes, the entirety of everything just a stroke of a fingertip away.

I used to be able to lay in all of it- consumed by the far-reaching hazy blues and greys. Everyone once remembers staring upwards from the fabric of the Earth- looking into the sky as if it was a retreat. Count the clouds, trace their shape with your eyes; wonder if anybody else is thinking about how it looks like an outstretched hand- or maybe a dog of some sort.

Everything around you is blue.

Your head is dizzy when you sit upwards. You forgot that green was a color.

What time were you supposed to be home? The hues of the sky aren’t the same as when you left. The sun is slipping underneath the horizon as the clouds scantily attempt to cover the flowering pink of the sky’s evening gown.

The hair on your arm rises in the new chill. Exposed flesh is nipped at by the twilight’s stolen warmth. You forgot your jacket at home when you left.
Guided home by amber streetlamps- the stars are nearly out. The kind blinking eyes of night.

Just think- somebody poked all those holes in the sky at one point; giving us oxygen like a bug in a jar.