fragments of us,
cerulean skies,
rambunctious weather, we sip our coffee.
the warmth feels like family, the touch of love,
the familial memory is now obsolete,
the the vapor prickling the skin,
rasorial in it's habit,
the flames have a life too.
the windshield wipers, convulse, wipe off,
the stains painted by a stranger's drops,
the sky weeps, in unison with the growling clouds,
they are hungry, because they are tired,
of hiding under the sun.
every person feels like a distant memory,
every feeling feels like a vapor of fantasy,
unbodied by objects,
this life has become a chairoscuro for my body and soul.
fragments of us,
i have come to love objects more than people.
because they cannot hurt me,
as they are metaphors i can understand,
but not feel.
