This will be the longest and worst Monday
one to the streets, one to the pavement, one to the same, one to the mattress
words falling off the finger tips, shoulder to wrist and toward forever
retracing promises and former hours recognized and gone
wilted apples amidst the caravans and prisons cells
so ripe
only to be ripe
only to be lonely, whole and never melting and like a summers storm, a summers cry, a summers regret
let that cold come,
the world is cutting into my shoulders
Please could you hold this?
Thanks.
I don’t mean that.