Parking Lot Euphoria
imbued / with the spirit of stories, we leave / the building.
the area / is wide, a sea / of parked cars. maybe we think
a decade into the future, to a time / when we may drive them.
maybe not. maybe it’s just / about the stars. the mysterious
clarity of the silvery dots / speaks to me like a lover waiting
for me to grow / into his scattered abandon. I’ll barely remember
a childhood friend’s face / next to me, only / the way the clean
air’s warmth carries every yearning / breath with ease.
we walk / the metallic maze, I say something / about adventures.
I look / like a girl in jeans & a colorful / shirt; I feel / like a two-legged
star accepted / into the firmament’s touchless / brotherhood.
the spell is broken / quickly. we get / into trouble for running off.
the rational self / that’ll grow with the passing / years rears its head
in my chest & scolds my careless / sentimentality; a short-lived
blossom folds in at / the weakness that slipped / into the open.
I regret, still, / how it spoiled / the moment. now that I only
admire that night’s openness / across formless / distance—
now that vivid / is a vision incapable / of sinking into
this thickened / skin
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Colwyn Fern is the pseudonym of a German poet writing in English. He currently studies British and American literature at university. In his free time, he tends to listen to music and stare at walls.
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Stone Poetry Quarterly 