1 min read



I lean my head back and look up 

at the cornflower sky with its endless dazzle

 and squint my eyes against it. 

I remember what a high-diver friend of mine

once said- she confused the blue of the sky with  

the pool while doing a simple jump, 

how something went wrong,  

the way it always does with simple things, 

and that was the end of her dreams. 

I thought how scary that was- 

confusing the air you breathe 

with the ground you placed your feet on. 

Yet, looking up there 

I begin to wonder how deep the sky is, 

how long it takes for one to drown in it. 

I sit back abruptly forward 

afraid I might get pulled in the whirlpool of blue 

and escape by a hair’s breadth 

as I take my surroundings in. 

Sunlight in a burnt-orange color 

drips over everything,  

and my chrysanthemum has finally blossomed 

for the first time in seven years. 

The steam of my forgotten chamomile tea

 curls above the sunshiny-amber liquid surface

to make a perfect circle  

and to eventually dissolve in the mellow air.

The shape disappears 

and hides between the rustling leaves 

of the sugar maple tree in my small backyard

to join them in their dance 

to the autumn windy melody. 

I smile over the rim of my cup, 

the porcelain spreading warmth 

through my fingertips. 

It trickles down and joins the light 

dancing on my forearms, 

until it settles on my chest. 

My twelve-year-old labrador picks up a twig

to play with and casts me a look, 

searching for approval. 

I glance at my phone 

and it suddenly grows bigger 

threatening to take up the entire garden table

  I’d discarded it on. It’s a giant black hole

 that inevitably colors my peripheral vision

 and its dead screen reminds me 

happiness can never be in one place. 

It’s that one reminder, 

coming on a late Tuesday afternoon 

when you least expect it, 

the hint that your world’s healing 

while your dog’s chewing on a broken twig. 

I pick up the impossibly heavy object 

and press the “delete contact” button. 


Again.





Evgeniya Dineva is a bi-lingual writer from Bulgaria. Her works appear in various literary journals such as The Trouvaille Review, Poetic Sun, Indian Ruminations, Ethel and Asian Cha. She's currently working on her second novel, which is going to be traditionally published under a pen name.

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