like pea soup

I feel like I’m dying in these fog filled mornings,
that one orange streetlight a fuzzy eyesore and my mind is buzzing
with the lack of memories.

Somewhere in the daze of the morning drive, listening to the song
the same I heard before I left you last night. The last time
lingering your scent

it freely dances across my sweater and into my nose

Could we go back there and figure things out? I think
the heavy rain makes a beautiful sound when it hits the glass
and slides on down;

I think we might have a chance if we could only take home
the hazy clouds, lay down, and sleep a little
finally sleep a little

[circa 2003?]

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