04 August | The Dopamine Hit · 4 of 11
Come hither.Come over.Come to my doorway when I turn the porch light on tonight.The moths that flutter there will sprinkle dust on my bare porch bulb like farmers sowing seeds.Come through hell when the water's high.Come back soon because the soil of a fallow field rots if left empty too long.Come see me.Come again.And again.The vines growing in my garden reach for the sun, even as they tangle.I worked all week to make a wooden swing for two.It creaks softly on its chains in the wind tonight, waiting.Won't you come?