I get to watch the moon rise as the sun sleeps
I don't have many permanent friendships
that's either a blessing or a curse—I suppose you choose.

Sometimes getting stomped on just rubs the gravel into my worn body,
but it's pressed there softly with each step
Some kind of love few are familiar with.

I guess I bring a kind of solace
to the overworked brain,
and the underworked body.

There are regulars;
people who come with the pink of morning,
some with the sun and the wind,
and others only with that of the silent night.

Some days they take memories;
Rocks pressed in the rubber folds of their souls,
Mornings they will forever miss,
Tears they drape across their imaginary finish line,
Words they will speak only to me,
Thoughts that come with the discomfort of this passion.

They take breaks to push their fingers into the dirt of my body,
sift the sand up through their fingernails--
perfectly painted, and they still grab at my chest.
Pushing rocks between them and their polish,
I am left pieces of pink.
That must be some kind of love, right?