Untitled pt. 3

It’s foggier, it’s all foggier —

some nights
I’ll wake with a sinking feeling in my chest:
remembering the ways you pushed my hands
further from my face and into your mattress
until I fell asleep,
cheap tastes and soft words still
tiptoeing across my lips, haunting my eardrums

— the way mist lingers after downpour,

rain hanging in the air and
pooling in the soles of my chuck taylors,
soaked in old poison.

The roses on my porch smell louder with leftover
rain slipping off the edges of their petals,
and the wisps of clouds shift from
mute grey to vibrant, blinding white.


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