Nostalgia in the worst forms.
I’ve required myself to peruse the eras
As decades
Transcend to a number not so lucky.
Ill and Feeble in quakes.
And my cancer-go-to 6 garments top and 4 pants,
With many a overcoat and switchable fabric sweater.
Buttons, zipper, robe, tartan string, whatever silliness.
It takes for comfortability.
And suddenly the mineral-dose
Seems like extra-cute-on-purpose.
Or that I’m dressing like I’m about to make out with my future
Baby daddy on some football field.
Also known as the band teacher and I’m the orchestra TA,
But both students,
For the public servant role and getting to know your community.
Dirtbag music dedicated to the appleseed
Of primordial youth crush.
We’re almost 70 dawg.
And still showed the playground youth how to sneak into the woods and fuck up a jungle gym
For creative workout.
I fucking love the swings!
And an old friend to youthful first-forever-ex-boyfriend
That never made wraps or official on the dating part
Is listening to me with emo tunes.
Where we decided to revolt on 6 years of not having a childhood and being 17,
That actually looked something more like being 33 and ready
To puke + rally.
Not really.
More. like..
Thiamine tablets and alkaline water for him, spring w/ extra minerals for me.
Oh cancer, you’ve brought us closer together.
To figuring out what lays underneath.
The hoodie or the robe.
Really,
It’s how the keys hang.
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