Pain is genuine and open.
You never absorbed mine the way I did yours .
The yeast turned to sugar turned to poison turned to tears.

I saw you only in old buildings, over grown yards, dive bars, and yellow walls.

crawling vines lost their appeal.
My mother loves moss grown between cracks of forgotten homes.
She hasn’t seen what I have.
Charming as it is as first, the smell of old neighborhoods never leaves you.
Anything can be appealing when it’s new, including old houses and old pain.

He didn’t care much for living. But I saw the whole that that leaves behind