Dusk at 4:30

The sky is 

a pink so sweet

it gives my heart 

a sugar flush.

Lines of birds 

fly past a moon 

which curls like 

a silver eyelash

set in mauve.

Somehow the streets

smell of incense 

and sawdust

and woodsmoke.

Everything is still.

Little lights 

embellish 

little houses

and I see 

for a moment

how easy it would be

to stay here 

forever.

'What a beautiful rut to get stuck in',

I think.

My suitcase decays in the attic.