I am really bad at life decisions and to a lesser extent, food decisions.
Talking and talking but never saying anything.
I don't want to be afraid to be lonely but I am.
I had a dream that somebody told me they hated my statement poems.
He is making me breakfast and I am a million miles away.
Caught in a rain storm, our wet skinny jeans stick to our thighs.
At the bus stop the seat is wet but I sit down anyway.
The pages of my book flutter ceaselessly in the wind.
Everybody has their hoods up and so do I.
Raindrops are smudging the words in my notebook.
In my bag I count sixteen bus tickets.
Suddenly after the storm there is sunshine.