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a new day whistling
Folder:
reworked vintage "a new day whistling"
The day presses in—
a slow tightening—
and the air runs thin enough
to split the skin at my mouth’s border.
Sweat gathers at my jaw,
dust touches the tongue,
and the ground answers each step
with the dry crunch of gravel.
I pause—
right at the line
between what was
and what waits.
Ahead, the light thins into distance,
not a promise,
just a shape I can walk toward.
My lips sting as I breathe in,
heat rising,
yet a faint cool memory
passes through—
a scrap of shade,
a single drop of rain
that never quite lands.
Still, I cross the line again,
because staying on one side
costs more than moving.
.
