Layers [√]

[ keeping up routines ]

some days feel like fire
burning slowly through the mundane haze
of early morning runs and toast and bacon
and the bitter reality of drama on tv
and the text messages left on read
and the hum of cars as they pass by
and the chatter of idle talk of mere acquaintances
and the impatient wait at the grocery line
and the indecision between vodka or tequila
and the shallowness of grins at bars
and the glinted baby blues of your sweetheart
and the flushed wind-bitten cheeks at the park
and the smell of roses on cemeteries
and the tolling of the church bell
and the lighted candles at dinner between what are we having?
and the see you again tomorrow in lines of doors that close
and the arms stuffed with laundry
and the miraculous hour of sleep before everything starts up again in the morning

some days feel like rain
seeping through papers of this month's rent
and the failure of college finals
and the impending anxiety of fears casted in frowns of teenagers at mirrors
and the stranger of a friend you see in town
and the empty chair at breakfast
and the smoke of faces blurred by trains and buses and airplanes
and the churning of your stomach as you hear your mother's diagnosis
and the way you no longer fit in your shoes anymore
and the development and the chaos accompanied by detachment
and the love either lost or forgotten stuffed inside a brown envelope addressed to your future

some days feel like both
kneeling on bathroom tiles water pouring
and the no not this again and the pleas and the ache
and the why is it so hard to be happy? questions yelled through thunder skies
and empty hearts
and the itchiness of skin pressed against skin
and the broken bones in need of fixing before the crash