They are talking to their dog, just sweet little things like good boy, who’s a good boy?
Footsteps in the morning dark, gentle patter. Muffled voices outside my window.
They could be expressing guilt for crying harder from heartbreak than for genocide.
They could be telling someone about a dream where they were paralyzed in a hospital.
Footsteps in the morning dark, gentle patter. Muffled voices outside my window.
Maybe they struggle to sleep at night and never know the right time to start drinking coffee.
They could be telling someone about a dream where they were paralyzed in a hospital
and their lover described another man’s cock as they spoon-fed them pureed broccoli.
Maybe they struggle to sleep at night and never know the right time to start drinking coffee.
(I want to whisper through the window screen: four, always wait until at least four.)
Their lover describes another man’s cock as they watch the dog squat.
Dark before the sun comes up is different from dark after the sun goes down.
(I want to whisper through the window screen: where do you hide your dreams?)
It’s just another morning, another chore before the next chore after the last chore.
Dark before the sun comes up is different from dark after the sun goes down.
How this morning stroll is a chance to repent, to let go, to talk to God, or maybe
it’s just another morning, another chore before the next chore after the last chore.
They could be expressing guilt for crying harder from heartbreak than for genocide.
How this morning stroll is a chance to repent, to let go, to talk to God, or maybe
they are talking to themselves, just sweet little things like good boy, who’s a good boy?
