Strange
Nothing like it.
Stumbles underneath you.
Helps us move the dirt, the texture of dirt becomes one of us.
Isn’t perfect.
Not like the balloons that escape in one exhale.
With their little string twirling around.
You walked out the back door once and thought it was empty.
As the seats are full as a potted plant with a plant in it.
Nothing like it.
The human feeling of dandelions.
The stoney feeling of destiny which tumbles like a notebook out of my hand.
Crafty as a river bank.
In my hand.
The soft pull of tissues you never knew you had in your pocket.
And the wavering feeling of not having a destiny,
Just a weird staring contest with the moon.
In the pocket of destiny.
Nothing like it.
I wish there was something besides myself.
That isn’t perfect either.
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