the cling.

the air feels like dust,

not bad dust,

like the type that makes you sneeze

and reminds us of what’s dead.

but a dust if it lived in a golden hue

and only contracted the qualities that make you tickle

with the presence of living in an atmosphere of timeless minutes,

my intentions are pure,

and yours the same…

one of the many commonalities that join us together.

i don’t mean to judge,

i am writing this

for a stranger to read (hi)

but i scrap my care of my portrayal

when i’m exposed to a corner booth surface level conversation

with bodies who don’t even ask where i’m from

having to endlessly ponder- “is this how people live?”

what a miracle in finding sanctuary,

eight billion humans and growing

somehow, we exchanged “nice to meet you”s.

“people, people who need people,

are the luckiest people in the world”

driving with the windows down

thumping speakers, laughs that lead to sore abdomens.

the wind moves through my hair

as effortlessly as we all should love another.

i can relate to my mother

after all of these years,

with how women behave with each other.

the care,

the cost,

the chirp,

the cling.

as far as i’m concerned,

you could do no wrong.

i woke up in your bed facing the window

almost in direct contact with the glass.

that’s when i saw my reflection of myself,

and said a simple prayer-

for you to never see me in the venomous way i see myself.