Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ashlyn Rimsky Sep 2021
Two grey sneakers
On a narrow, dirt,
Forgotten path.

An indescribable,
Unbearable urge:

To run away.
To have it.
The boy,
The girls,
The dog.

The house
With a roast
In the oven,
An aroma of carrots
In the air.

Leaves colored
And falling.
A fire going.

No where to be
And be happy about it.
What a dream,
What a dream.
Ashlyn Rimsky Aug 2021
They say when you die,
Cryonics can bring you back.

I lay motionless and cold,
Hopeful that life will, one day, return.
Ashlyn Rimsky Aug 2021
Black and milds
Mask the darkness
Of a cold, rainy,
Starless night.

They fill my lungs
The way that headlights
fill the fog,

Leave bits of Ashes
In the cushions -
Glowing, then gone

Now all that is left
Is a hole in the seat,
And a smell I can't get rid of.
Ashlyn Rimsky Aug 2021
I can fit
In the crook
Of your arm
And the space
Between your lips
And the gaps
So inviting
Between your fingers.

I can fit
On the edge
Of your bed
And the cushion
Of your couch.
Sink your head
On my pillow
Of a chest.

I can fit
Pans of veggies
In the oven,
Fill our mouths
With a temporary
Substance, some

I can fit
In your phone
As a number,
Paint your background
With the spackle
In my eye.

I can fit
so many spaces,
and places,
and people,
and things,
just anywhere but in.
Next page