Smoke floats between
the damp sheets of linen
in my mouth.

The vacuum of my nose
***** it out.

I perch on a faded lawn chair
browned from the 2000’s sun.
It’s February and 34 degrees.

I spent all week getting lost
in my phone for hours on end.  

Some people sip green,
barely dancing,
the neighbors’ presence.

I tell lies so lightly
to my new friend.
She is 21 and well read.
Someone put a hole in her head.

We think we move in circles
but it’s more like jagged lines.
Her dramatic lines pair
with my new found mind.

We speak of the fear of speaking.
We porch hop, chatter box
to couches and beds where
ghosts hang over heads.
Sunlight causes it to end.

The morning windows open
and the roof is wet.
I sip coffee and delay regret.