5:08 p.m. pst sunday, january 8, 2017
i was told “no single riders.” like a wash bin full of mushy letters. soaked to the point of lost meaning. the motion of the ferriswheel halt. my eyes jumped bitter. don’t rock the carts. murmuring bushwa to the painted walls. my addition to the stories being written on this pier. my words will end up in bargain boxes with the cover art ruined by fifty percent off stickers. some disapproved isolation. my solitude is forced into corners and fed the leftover pigeon’s bread. my sister is four states away and my heart is hidden in the clouds. the muddy tide is right there. rinsed but never clean. the panic of living incorrectly. grab the hand of a stranger with a bubble gun and shoot my mind loud. somehow required to become shrill and unhappy. it’s only me, and that statement shouldn’t seem lonely.
xoxo,
mute style
layered like a cake as the gray day whisked me downtown. but sugary words are not capable of frosting this poem. a cherry pie in the face. not so poetic being alone. love is a nice creamy filling that makes life bearable. and i’m becoming caffeine crazed. (again.) ask those thrifted boys i meet for coffee, do you believe in “the” love of your life? a toasty person like one singular pair of worn in socks. finding sentimental holes or losing one in the wash. sometimes love is misplaced. but you’ll never forget the name.
