Spring Cleaning

its a week out until spring and you can tell by the smell in the air, in the linens in the little floating flowers that glide like fairies across courtyards i start to notice the lines in my face like a pressed out paper crane and how the afternoons are stained amber in the late light across wooden floors like the teabags i leave by the sink my hair and my pot plants and my walks grow longer and on the beaches i realise that this the last true spring of my youth it can feel like endings are ending like a permanent sunset, always teetering on the edge of tomorrow, the sharp edge and the concept that it never comes is almost as consistent as the hope that it will