There are days when I don’t know what to ask. When I don’t know what you did? Where you went? Who you were with? If you found joy? If you learnt something? If you cussed someone out? If someone cussed you out?
And I know that you and I only have a few minutes together, standing barefoot on the cracked kitchen tiles. Fault lines spreading like a web of dead veins. The clock on the stove almost declaring a new day. You scour the fridge; scarf down yogurt, tonight’s leftover pizza, this mornings pancakes or yesterday’s chicken fingers. And then you’re gone again. Downstairs for a midnight shower.
John's Writing 