View: All Thoughts Writing

I wasn’t expecting to cry.

I laid a stake in theses cobbled streets the way an astronaut plants a flag on the moon.

Look at you Sarah, look at how you’ve grown: thick-skinned, silver tinsel in your hair, money just numbers floating in the air.  

A temporary installation.
A temporary summer.
A temporary life. © 2024
(there are other sarah rose’s, but this is the new one)