And then he stopped coming around and nothing changed. Suddenly he was there and the next second he wasnt like a game of find the missing dollar. The last time I saw, it was in my back pocket, and I dig my fingers into the crisp denim only to be led into a black hole that takes me back to where I started. He's not in this diner, Daisy.
The four walls have never been numbered before, but now even where the windows are I can't help but feel caged in. Wall number one speaks out of turn to wall number three and now all of them gang up against me. I feel small and big all at the same time.
Where's Newton?
He'd tell me I forgot about the ceiling. Kick it freestyle with my fading black boots, call it a motherfucker when it breaks loose. Sayonara, walls number one to four. I hope I don't see you in nirvana.
YOU ARE READING
daisy chains
General Fictiondaisy leads the cliché life of an aspiring actress working at a diner, waiting to trade roller blades for louboutins image: tashimrod on instagram
