Hand Towel
on the tiled floor we lie
Discarded
saturated with tears to the point of tearing
We like to imagine ourselves as a rose, trampled on the ground
We do not like the floor.
so cold, despite attempting a welcome
We much prefer the counter
where we belong.
where we can watch them be happy
Pulsations of joy through us
Our threads become veins
Propelling us through the heavy pages of time
a moment, a lifetime
and so we wait
watch twelve too many off white capsules vanish
Heart broken in synchronized passing
longing for the days before
of Clouding Mist
of Cold Air Shocks
Life enjoyed as she is meant to be
instead of this cubicle monotony
as we stare up at the ceiling