Jenny Glasscock

And the clouds on the horizon that look like mountains remind me of you. They’re there, and they seem real, and if I walked far enough, I think I would reach them. But they leave when they please, and every day I wake up and wonder if I will see them. And every day I’m disappointed, until the afternoon when there they are, sitting like they never left. And I’m left wondering if I’m delusional or simply that pathetic that I’m waiting on something that I know has no understanding of what it means to be an actual mountain. They pretend. They imitate. They fade. And no matter how much I wish and hope that someday they will become real mountains, I know that they will not, and billions of years from now the earth will be scorched by the red-hot sun and not even the clouds will remember that I was here.