As rolled oats slip through sleep driven fingers
I cannot hold onto anything.
The night only grows so dark in the city,
and all things linger in the faint light of street lamps.
Oh the strangeness of come-and-go friends,
familiar as your mothers hands.
I will pour myself a glass of water to clear away
the wine that allowed my bluntness,
bluntness that let me cry,
and tears that held solace.
I wish I could remember the lines that rushed between my ears as you spilled your past 3 weeks of thought;
but I was too busy trying to understand the unfinished sentences.
it is strange to leave in what seems like sacred moments
because of what politics we hold surrounding our intimacies
an oh so common trend,
perhaps to be reconsidered
sometimes a snack’s
really got your back
crunck & crack
snack snack snack
snack on track