the crumbled note
when I walk through the faded painted aisles of the convenient store (which wasn’t really convenient because they didn’t have the clorox wipes I was looking for) and I froze and stared at was once filled with an artificial scent, made up notes of crumbled up lavender that you plucked with your finger tips during a cold dusk, letting a dim sun wave hello and a goodbye with its subtle passing
through (out) my days I have walked a path layered with honed pebbles and chiseled rock, stomping over drooping dandelions. my first love used to tell me that lamb’s ear softened the blow and I inhaled the thick air that will probably take me
d
o
w
n
a stream
a voyage
s
t
a
i
r
s
a steep hill
a foggy road
a letter with no name
a home with no address
a beckon with no tongue or body