Sunset Therapy Isn’t Covered

I tried to schedule some relief

between missed calls and misplaced patience,

but the city didn't agree.

It said it only accepts payments.

So I went where the invoices can’t find me,

where the day ends politely,

and the sky starts changing clothes

like it’s got somewhere else to go.

Gold spills out, then thins to blue,

pink appears, a beautiful hue.

They argue for a moment, then they blend,

like they know the drama has to end.

People say you need a professional,

a clipboard kind of confessional,

someone trained to nod just right

And name your pain in artificial light.

But the sun doesn’t cut you off.

It doesn’t push. It doesn’t scoff.

It listens by leaving, slow and sure,

because silence is the actual cure.

I felt my chest unclench a notch,

not healed, not fixed, just… filled with hope.

Less mess, less weight, but the same flow,

just held with less “I have to know...”

No payments are needed for standing still

when the horizon writes the bill.

No coverage for that kind of care,

for letting light and night clear the air.

Sunset therapy isn’t covered.

But I was, somehow, recovered

by gold, by hush, by the sound of the waves,

by the wind that gently kissed my face.

And somehow, that was enough to prove

I may fall down, but I still choose to move.

Step by step, I rise into the night,

Bruised but breathing, ready for the fight.