The smoke from your cigarette floated heavily upwards,
You were holding it in a way where you could type on your phone.
I leaned against the machine that hardly ran, and settled into the cold.
Eventually I adapted, dazed by the smoke, watching your expression.
Two deaths on the same road in a week, both children.
One in a couple years would be considered an adult, who was she going to be?
I see the words on your lips, finally saying it.
Admitting to me more,
Breaking point,
Adaption.
And it all occurs, possibly not in the same order as they come in.
Facing the cold and accepting your fate?
Feels allot like giving up,
But it just feels so much more easier going with the current.
Because that's where you were traveling anyway?
Listing off ideas, we are both away on the timing,
I lay on the picnic table, seeing the place of a great memory, when in even all reality that has changed too—
1)Breaking point
YOU ARE READING
Rootless
PoetryRootless: Having no basis of stability; Unsteady. To you: The vagabonds, the lost souls, and those empty promises. If you feel like you don't belong, that you're lost, lack stability, and/or feel that what you're living now isn't what your life is s...
