Tonight the evening nurtures more light than it does conversation
and awkwardly mingles with the air that smells like drip dried hair
while the motorcade of our fragile thoughts
looks to us for recognition
A winter’s fence of stooped trees dressed like peasants
lock arms and clench unintended fists for support
Both of our faces slack and tense
like a mentalist who wrongly declared
matchbook instead of watch
or love instead of friendship
No comments:
Post a Comment