what do you answer to?
you are nothing like my world has ever seen.
we are not from around here.
we are mere passersby overwriting each other’s
footprints amidst the traffic of us.
the thing is: i can inhale you sometimes,
within a short window in your wake,
when your scents feign interest in my skin,
when i sit downstream of you in this aether.
but what will they call us?
we could walk away unnamed,
shelved to neglect for something more acceptable,
folded between seconds to be increasingly
compressed, brittle, and yellowed in time.
2015.jun.05
