Dried Cranberries.
a poem.
you still work
in the same shabby neighborhood,
even though I wished
you’d flee
to an unknown city.
the hot waves,
do they travel down to you?
when another little kid
reminds you
a lot,
of how I used to be.
there’s too much
water under the bridge now, or whatever
desperate lovers say on desperate evenings;
but if I saw you
at the lane,
when you return home today,
and I spare,
would you give up on perspectives,
and come running to me?
if you run
would I do too, or
would I care for the drenching bridge?
would I remind myself of how I never forgot
the things
you spilled out of your
dirty mouth,
still stuck in my teeth
like the sour-sweet
of dried cranberries.
Thank you for reading.
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