Choob

the trees go brown then bare. the sky rarely blooms for me anymore. but your hands are still pink and nipped, by the mice in your walls. they come whisper to me in the evening. they list all the pink they’ve seen. flushed deep, dark, rose, ruddy, bloody. pink like the summer. pink like the winter. pink like a newborn who will never quite grow out of his baby face.

if i knew i would tell you. as soon as i think i know i manage to forget. i can't go back in time, ill just keep wearing your shirts and keep making bad decisions. i stopped changing the bed sheets or folding the laundry. i stopped waking up in the morning and going to sleep at night. maybe i never really did any of those things. the world could be handed to me on a silver platter and i would probably drop it in a muddy puddle while on a trip to sacramento.