No 4: FOMO

PHOTO BY LUCY BIRTWISTLE

LUCY BIRTWISTLE

Everything the light touches, even

up to the corners, consumes the warmth

of the buttery sun spread dancing down

arms, spreading through backs,

triumphantly conquering your esophagus as it makes its way down like the first sip of hot coffee

In the shade, though, a mere foot away,

cold shrivels life; gray dominates sidewalk weeds and pinky fingers

Why can’t the sun just inch a little closer?

Because next to me,

Over there,

That person is basking. They’re swallowing rays of rebirth,

sun seeping into their poorly-concealed veins

Injection of jitter, of movement

My brow involuntarily furrows as steam invisibly twirls upwards off pavement, shrieking it’s privilege of emission,

And asses fill benches where medium brown wood panels gleam with newly virtuous brownness

Cheeks sag inward where I am

Teeth coated in a dull gray survival

and hot coffee

It doesn’t quite seem to have the desired effect