The horizon ahead is painted with gold.
Waves of fuchsia and lilac meet,
Cascading into soft cerulean and seafoam.
It is a mesmerizing beauty to behold.
Yet… I still glance at the rear view.
The edges vibrant with color and warmth,
The rest stained with darkened rainclouds.
Why do my lungs fill with crushing guilt
As I leave what’s left behind?
I loved the rain; hell, I still do.
But the setting sun against my skin
Has awoken a gentle and timid beast.
Do I give myself permission to love again?
Is it my permission to give?