sleepless, 3 a.m. in the living room a silence untouched by the ticking clock and soft rumble of the frig, now living things in this fragile bubble called home partly because of them, I’ve become
I only turned back when I heard it - a honeybee spinning in sidewalk circles, like a car performing donuts but in loops of loud buzzing in the most accidental timing of unintentional innocence, my b
melted and soaking toast, the oil squeezing out with each bite slathered over corn on the cob, my lips and chin a gaudy bliss as I pull away even crackers when scooped with its softened yellow fat
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