pain that sticks with you
a friend from childhood
a low grade fever
keeping you just damp enough
with slow erode melancholy
each ear an engine
grinding sand in between
makes me need wild flowers
it gives them purpose
they are not just for decoration
anymore
they are graffiti
total arbitrary compassionate faces
disappointment is combustible
when in contact with relief
ignite these flowers
lightening inside us for a moment
illuminating our dark organs
just enough time to reveal
the houses built there
with reflection roofs
turning the stomach into a sun-doused penny.
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