Walls were pressed and hammered Therapy for workers, curing pangs of comforts They sat between fleshy webs of knuckles On lunch break they would pluck pouts of moldy fruit If only she could hear summer of 98’ Glimmering puddles and sinkable reasons She could test her strength with Goldfish and a drippy, chocolate cupcake Matching deserts of skin covering joints young enough to bend They spat against another, sweating. Tapping Smoother than honeymooners in a convention center Frigid or uncontrollable, no one could tell The breezeway connected teeth, the left chipped in the corner from A muddy softball game. Their team won 7-2. Wide enough to squeeze uncooked macaroni shells between Became the dusky neighborhood game. Transitioning humans, males most likely, whispered fears between that gap. He was different. He waited in outside the doors, near the trash bins With grumpy janitors, muttering, “fuggin’ kids” and things like that. She loved how ugly they were then.
Her thoughts trailed him, what was left of him, as he paced Searching for the mug he left there, no There, holding wet tissue, no Soggy cupcake liner Cupcake, shortcake, cake, cake liner Rainbow or musty brown from 346 degrees Fahrenheit Baking Therapy Class held in her kitchen Maybe because she could pound at the dough and it would never fight back She neglects the finale of rumbling coffee exhale since she knows He’d never come back. Not here or any party she threw. But on another hard drive she saved photos of September 20th. She’ll flip mindlessly through a Cosmopolitan, until she can forget his name