I only smell the bakery down my street the sewers are clogged with our dead ends while spring makes a guest appearance, finding my way home to the spot I've name always "the end" the stars have always led me back here. To the smell of bliss and Italian hair nets. The nests above always crest a hold on me. The curving plate of land leading to the window-sized door I've memorized the cracks and bruises of each push, I know I've pushed too hard into the wind and a battle started that I tried to drown with envy and sink with grief. You never fit on my block, you looked too focused and confused and too illustrated under each paragraph and each line you couldn't align yourself between finger tips or look at poetry, looking at you made me get the concept of a sore thumb, I couldn't bare to watch you lie there longer, you've  always managed to touch me like an empty canvas, a loose picture frame and if there is one thing left to say to the rosy cheeks of you entering the castle I thought bided our humanity, beneath this ginger bread smell and silence it would be thanks, for stopping by.