Forty-five down the parkway. Windows down, 76 degrees, And the smell of rain. Humidity, Wet earth, Flowing through the windows And down my throat, Through my lungs, Into my bloodstream and Blanketing itself around my brain. Nostalgia is my drug of choice. Beauty doesn’t come In forms of days like these Too often.
We with warped minds frolicked under those lights, hanging loyally like cold, sparkling jewels in the humid night. "These nights are sacred," I would say, and the ripe summer air would roar through every vein in our young soft bodies.
it's three pm on a thursday. don't tell me you have anything planned other than to sit on the back porch killing flies and picking the skin off your fingers. i know it's humid and full of lime outside but sometimes it's good to have sour lungs, you know? breathe it in. come outside.
an old old lady sat beside me at the bus stop. she was making a huge black and red and green and yellow blanket & told me it was for dreams. i didn't know what she meant so i nodded and offered to pay her bus fare. she was gone before i could look up and it made me think of cyclopes and orange peels
i'll live in the ocean one day! for now, we're in glitter and rot, covered in murals and expensive tea none of us could afford. but one day i'll be a seagull too & i won't have to worry about the ground shaking anymore
i never made a birthday wish n im kinda regretting it