can our world really be spinning
or just mine?
I contemplate this as I tongue the inner lumps
of my cheek
and crumble clumps of dirt
stuck in the patterns
of my plastic shoes
and search
for blank pages
so important to incapsulate some meaning
remembered from a bathroom wall
some scribbled scrawl
that at some point to me
meant everything
but trudging through the mud of my memory
teething on some twisted truth
as I suckle a cigarette
and my surroundings spin around me
(while you soak up sun and I wait in shade)
I remember nothing
but the gleam of teeth
and a puddle in a cup
and chalk
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