flynn maynard

Falling back into older places and familiar towns. Dreamless sleeps. Forging my future with a blunt knife. That peach tone you only see when you glance above a setting sun. Talking to a mother at the grocery store. Smirking at a father’s rogue joke at the pub. Meeting a friends’ grandparents and understanding where it all comes from. Letting a cake rest. My first grey hair. Gordon (motherfucking!!!) Spring. My first sunburn of the summer. Learning a new chord. Nursing a wound and cleaning out the sand. A really, really good guttural cry. Considering quitting my job when it gets too busy. Breaking a bag of ice. The wind that arrives every single summer afternoon. I let the joy come, and weep when it goes. And loving you, dearest stranger. Please come home.