I'll walk on Sunday and see all the faces;
And think of how strange it is to be having one
And pairs of eyes, and pairs of legs walking amongst each other, taking it for granted
I'll look down and watch their feet move like swinging boats by the sea
And dogs which move like thin cloth in the breeze, fur that isn't all there
And poles moving past me
It's too bright to not squint nor walk upright
Nor speak without stopping. So I don't bother.
I'll see pairs of eyes stare at each other and then take a kiss;
take it like it never existed before, and think this will never happen to me
And the rose for granted, red and tainted with a different species of dementia meant for dainty things
I will never experience that rose not on my own
But I'll pick them myself, I will harvest them on my own accord
And push my fingers into their stems
And taste them and wonder, if this is what love tastes like
If this is the crux, what it amounts to
And how normal it is, and how indifferent
I will walk by and pretend to be nonchalant
But my interest in red still lingers.