I am

I am the smell of the unshaken rug
dust warmed by the shifting shapes of sunlight
this long afternoon.

Blossom that once lined streets
russets in gutters like pine needles
its crimson now blooming in bruises above school socks
burns on the backs of our hands.

I am the expected next beat of your raggedy heart
never this beat or the beat just been
I cling in the chill of the pre-rain air.

2 thoughts on “I am

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