We are cosmic.

We are dead flowers in the spring.

We are blooming rose bushes in the winter.

We are claustrophobic astronauts.

We are the ambiguous blurs of trees and lines of

suburban houses whizzing by while riding in

moving vehicles.

We are windowsills, doormats, tips of shoelaces,

expired candy wrappers floating down empty

city streets, to-go cups, napkins.

We are always running from something,

always trying to find reasons to stay, to make

people stay.

We are endless seas and seas and seas that no one really

sees and sees and sees.

We are that feeling when

passing by someone you used to know.

That crazy realization of how easily we become strangers to one another.

That we mattered once before and don't anymore.

We are raindrops racing down windowpanes.

We are cuticles and chapped lips and nails

gnawed down to raw flesh.

We are hands in laps, in pockets, in fists.

We are just another blade of grass, just another grain of soil,

just another flower petal in a cemetery. The last nail in our coffins.

We are trees marked to be cut down after people realize

that we're not needed anymore.

We are bright green spring grass shooting up from in between

the cracks of dull grey obsolete pavement.

We are all destined for greatness;

to grow into meadows, into fields

beneath these streets,

beneath this concrete.

We mean well, we do.

But not to you.

No.

 

Anyone but you.