#yeehhhhh

porch ghost. the front yard swing’s rusted chain; the same shade of chipping bark, the same red that makes you check your hands twice for a cut you’ve maybe missed. the taste of tobacco and wet soil. a bare porch, every rocking chair still in sway. the smell of horse hair and open sky. a feeling you’re never watching the sunset alone, a soft chuckle to a conversation you can’t hear. an orange sand settles on the floorboards. some dust travels miles to come home again.