it soon became that
2 AM on the back porch
with the BOSE speaker,
playing some quiet song
about loss
or heartbreak,
became common practice and
writing down names
scratchy pencil loops
in a worn out journal
was just
another way to cry.
I've been sitting on the steps for at least an hour now.
It's hot,
sticky,
pavement warm under my feet
as I finally stand
and wander across the driveway,
pebbles digging into my skin.
tissues litter the stone stairs.
my eyes feel raw —
I should go to sleep,
but I can't see to find
the energy.
i'll get used to this in college.
YOU ARE READING
Park Benches and Polaroids
PoetryBiking, late night summers, falling in love, a yearning for adventure, and the color yellow: a poetry collection about introspection, love, and change from my own life, all the way up until I turned 20.
