Lonely City
I can see her potted plants, and I wonder how they survive since she’s never there to water them.
I can see her potted plants, and I wonder how they survive since she’s never there to water them.
Where was the magic in saltines and Gatorade for dinner, in spiking fevers and loneliness? Where was the magic in canceled flights and missed wedding celebrations?
On every guitar case and appliance in sight were collections of stickers from anything and everywhere.
Flooding stores with fresh hires just before a vote count in an attempt to dilute the vote? Illegal. Dragging their feet as long as possible with unionized stores, refusing to negotiate a contract with the union? Illegal.
I would have inhaled a rosemary salt bagel with my iced vanilla latte this morning.
It’s impossible to forget that the building was once a church.
It’s as if the freedom to have fun was traded in exchange for my college diploma.
Was this an encounter with some forest guardian, a mountain sprite who hikes miles through the misty mountains and sips water at hidden springs?
When I walk through the blue door, now it feels like a home—my home.
I mean honestly, I cried the entire eight-hour car ride to college (shout out to my parents who kept driving).