some days
the floorboard that gasps when stepped on
the blue bulb pulsing in an amber-lit room
the coffee stain colonizing your blue shirt—
some days, we’re nothing but
a tiny inconvenience
sharpen a pencil too far—it snaps
gargled too long, you swallow by accident
sending flowers too early—
some days, we’re nothing but
the clock that limps or leaps
some days, we are
the red shirt always missing—
until we bleed into everything
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