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The tomatoes hang eaten. Some rodent, maybe. The cayenne doesn't work, just burns the air I breathe. Knees swell. The doctor? I haven’t called. This is the small life we once smirked at. Summer again. No mercy. Too much. Too bright. Lately, I forget: the grigio in the freezer the last message, why I opened the drawer. I drop things now. Envelopes. Keys. A glass once, the sound too big for the room. My grip loosens without permission. You said, That’s what old looks like. But you didn’t get here. We stay. We wait. For mail. For quiet. For a name to light the screen. For the neighbor’s dog to stop barking at nothing. Oceanside, in shopfront glass, I glimpse my portrait— eyes angry, narrowed against the glare, shirt caught on wind. And I ache, to be so briefly here.
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Jun 24, 2025
Jun 24, 2025 at 9:32 PM UTC
What Stays
The tomatoes hang eaten. Some rodent, maybe. The cayenne doesn't work, just burns the air I breathe. Knees swell. The doctor? I haven’t called. This is the small life we once smirked at. Summer again. No mercy. Too much. Too bright. Lately, I forget: the grigio in the freezer the last message, why I opened the drawer. I drop things now. Envelopes. Keys. A glass once, the sound too big for the room. My grip loosens without permission. You said, That’s what old looks like. But you didn’t get here. We stay. We wait. For mail. For quiet. For a name to light the screen. For the neighbor’s dog to stop barking at nothing. Oceanside, in shopfront glass, I glimpse my portrait— eyes angry, narrowed against the glare, shirt caught on wind. And I ache, to be so briefly here.
William-A-Gibson
Written by
M/Cambria CA
Jun 24, 2025
Jun 24, 2025 at 9:32 PM UTC
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