18 and still not mellow
you will take your pennies and throw them down the gutter,
who will follow your glow with hesitation
the lights that hum will close off its shutter
mere relative days you sing with joy its creation.
your hair’s strange, said it, you’re too short
cyclical conversations thrown into flakes of cardinal rust
take my shoulder if you want, but wait! heart’s a halting mort
the sting that collapses into what will become a haphazard collection of dust.
i’ve never sang of the sea, ebony hair taken in tendrils by the breeze
again the tales twice-told too-easily in the twilight
the trust and comfort of your well-worn familiar crease
this is perhaps what we needed, so i will shake it off in flight.