i feel you
like tiny backpacks
flowers once hit in the suicide lane
maybe we’re passers by
watching them work around us
purposeful with dissatisfaction
unable to wish it any better
but doing it anyways.
if you think you knew me before
you should see me now
all upper crust
like flowers on any apron
reminding anthologies the grass is greener somewhere
i feel your absence like picks on my feet
moons half beet but still trying
hoping for the next time they can be full.
how are the trees there?
is the oxygen
a better breath?
or are you drowning
heavy in the foliage.