it smelled like fruit at the train station this morning maybe it was the mother - infant draped, arms over her shoulder soft and smiling
it could've been the man holding flowers white knuckled hungrily consuming the tile with black patented like the ants I see carrying off other ants
or maybe it’s that three years later summer still feels like orange peels baking in a hot train station and I’m still there weighing out how it feels to be human
"you don't have shoes on" poetic lush and the fires i've always wanted to start heels dug into asphalt that's been cracked by the trees in my trash filled front page front yard where I yelled at you in drunken rage i wasn't all that wasted but my frontal lobe gave out of me before it could really let go of all the toxic treated brain stuff keeping you at arms length from me throat painted with a dagger and i'm starting to see that it's for a reason
"you don't have shoes on" and i'm trying to be better and i love you
grey tiled waffle house in Atlanta, Georgia I'm about ten coffee stirrers apart from you and my face burns for the third hour awake and the mundane act of loving you.