Remorse
The moon is blue today— I can’t explain why the daffodils are all daisies their dewdrops smell like cinnamon with a strong aftertaste of extra virgin olive oil. The pencils write like highlighters the sharpies are erasers, writing’s filled with fumbling: less pretty, more true— distracted now I’ve lost sight of that blue moon. At least the sunrise hasn’t changed not to my knowledge, 5 a.m. is now half past noon so I never know when to look out the window. Pumpkins are blooming in March this season’s costume: slutty doctor. Classy. Classy now means classical again all the words are jumbled like we’re playing Scribble, or Blueberrygrams. The Earth has started spinning counterclockwise, Michael DeGrasse Tyson seems upset by this sudden development, years in the making like antlers on cows. It’s easier to sleep outdoors: no moonlight anymore.
You’re deaf to all these changes,
of course,
because there is no real change:
you can’t change remorse.
Benjamin Guzovsky is a high school senior from Massachusetts. He enjoys competitive
swimming, watching the sunrise, and The Great British Baking Show. His work is previously unpublished.
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